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He continues: So I wrote a piece called Meditations as to how to get some wirecutters before someone else gets some guns to us. Alone in the Whispering Gallery I lean to the ear of no one to my left Can you hear me?

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A voice, my fathers, his fathers, comes from the right Can you hear me? Ive brought voices here with me; they linger the way odors do.

A friend who visited the citadel at Gore Island said you can smell death left over from the days of the trade. Why am I here at the Millennium Wheel, the eye of London? I dont want to queue-up wont queue-up, but Im here. London is lousy with old buildings, statues, parks, theaters, and museums. Killed his father and lived a long life in asylums painting fairy landscapes.

The soundtrack for this solitary sojourn quiet and incidental like the puzzle piece found face down when I disembarked at Heathrow a dreary oatmeal until turned over to reveal no pattern, a solid green, unexpected hard to place like the tune the guy on the Tube whistled now rattling my head or the dead pigeon I saw from Westminster Bridge yesterday oating in the Thames wings slightly out somewhere mid-apeither uttering down on sidewalk clutter or clapping away from the progress of pedestrians ying on the waves of tour boats wakes. Potter In Cairo I missed street pigeons; they were not there at the open-air eatery where I dined with Jasmine off Talaat Harb when the morsel of macaroni missed my mouth.

I only saw pigeons on menus and the backseat of a Peugeot in and atop a sturdy-looking wooden cage because the cage door was open. There were no sparrows to clean up my mess either. We found them on a menu a few days later.

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The waiter hesitated, then translated the Arabic for our table, and we said Yes, we want sparrows. The hesitation at bones holding up, resisting the jaw, my maw, those bones for tendons to bind muscles to and help buoy that tiny body above the ow of folk with their sedentary urban tendencies, a mouthful that came with a people stopping by this river, edged with papyrus that they beat at and dried brown to leave notes for each other. They were delicious, those sparrows, in their port wine sauce. You look like someones daughter; I nd that so attractive.

I once thought this, but now its someones mother or aunt more often than not or cousin or uncle or brother or son on occasion. The crush is everywhere, or maybe its me, my luck, like always seeing the corner crooners by the storefront of The Heart, loiteringsinging for quarters and grins. Most days I can count on the rst and second crush, and sometimes theres a fth or sixth.

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Theyre as likely not to notice me as to smile in my eyes. Either way my heart skips like those at stones that kiss the skin of the pond and y off again before sinking.

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Today it is you in that polka dot dress I need to thank for getting me to three. The Hearts a big chain; theres one everywhere you go, and they rarely have those No Loitering signs. Youre more likely to see No Solicitations. Ill leave this postcard here for you to nd.

In troughs of night Jasmine slept, numb from the consumption of rays from the moon. Through to its end, this poem fends off desire. A toast to the heavy drum that pulls us daily and urges that we hum the distance.


Between desires, men scoff at the moon, hung lightly to shine plum-dark nights, as they measure breaths from the moon to the end. Of our poems, ends tossed out to hold them off, we hope some may say they rumble on and pleasingly hum the distance between. Desires bend us and bend. Book Description Milkweed Editions January , Paper Back.

Dangerous Goods Audiobook by Sean Hill

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Interview with poet Sean Hill

Seller Inventory n. Items related to Dangerous Goods: Poems. Dangerous Goods: Poems. Sean Hill. Publisher: Milkweed Editions , This specific ISBN edition is currently not available. View all copies of this ISBN edition:. Synopsis About this title From the poet whose stunning debut was praised as "transcendent" by Kevin Young and "steadily confident" by Carl Phillips, "Dangerous Goods" tracks its speaker throughout North America and abroad, illuminating the ways in which home and place may inhabit one another comfortably or uncomfortably -- or both simultaneously.

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Dangerous Goods by Sean Hill

Customers who bought this item also bought. Stock Image. Dangerous Goods: Poems Hill, Sean. Published by Milkweed Editions. There were a couple poems that stood out to me from the stack I read through, this was one of them. I think I was drawn to how sincere and honest the text was, it felt like a confession by the poet, a confession many of us could resonate with. There was something very sweet and down-to-earth about it.

I wanted to challenge myself in making a short film that started from a text. Starting with a text written by someone else was a first for me. How did you go about deciding just how to treat the poem, visually? Or, another way of asking this: what was the poem saying to you and how were you responding to it? The poem always felt like an introspection for the main character. The video is pretty white — your brother, the other people in the neighborhood of the film. And Sean is a black man. Was this intentional? I find the content of the poem very universal, and it could be the thoughts of anyone regardless of race, sexual-orientation, age, etc.

I live in South Minneapolis and my brother Nick fit the character I had in my head perfectly. We interpreted the poem in our own way and applied it to the character my brother and I created that felt the most realistic.

I find that listening to music with headphones can create a bubble for self-confidence and daydreaming. When the music is good it acts as a soundtrack for what you are taking in visually as you walk through a physical space. I enjoyed imagining the main character using music as a type of salve to open his heart and allow himself to fall in love with several people he encounters throughout his day.

Did you imagine the guy listening to any particular sort of music in his headphones?