Indigo Hawkins

Rookie (April 30,1989 / Virginia)

Indigo Hawkins Poems

1. Since My Mind Abandoned Me 11/11/2007
2. Landmark 11/11/2007
3. They Say You Get Used To It, This Place 11/14/2007
4. Bystander 11/14/2007
5. Pablo Picasso Said 11/14/2007
6. Cairn 2/7/2008
7. Syphylis Makes The Whole World Kin 2/7/2008
8. Jane Draws Herself 2/7/2008
9. I Wrote Of Horses 2/7/2008
10. Liberal Arts 2/7/2008
11. Double Helix 2/8/2008
12. To Be Blunt: 2/12/2008
13. Suicide Poets 2/14/2008
14. Half Of Whole 2/15/2008
15. Preserves In An Alabaster Jar 4/28/2008
16. Is Am Not I 4/30/2008
17. Low Sunday 7/13/2008
18. Girl With An Eggplant Tattoo 7/31/2008
19. Forgiveness 8/1/2008
20. Terror Born Of Abyss 8/8/2008
21. Reprisal 8/14/2008
22. Meditation On Violence 9/11/2008
23. October 10/8/2008
24. Sonnet 2 12/10/2008
25. A Serial Negligence Of The Sun 12/13/2008
26. Insomnia 12/16/2008
27. Recipe For Irritability 12/18/2008
28. Of My Ego 2/1/2009
29. Riding An Elephant 2/9/2009
30. Damages 2/11/2009
31. Soliloquy Of A Shallow Duck 2/11/2009
32. Momentum 2/13/2009
33. You Mustn'T Speak 2/18/2009
34. Wondering About Wonder 2/28/2009
35. Imperfect Idols 3/3/2009
36. Of A Forgotten Life 3/21/2009
37. Today Is Military 7/25/2008
38. Today Is Chemical 7/25/2008
39. Today Is A Cadaver 7/25/2008
40. Today Is Downy 7/25/2008
Best Poem of Indigo Hawkins

Benediction

'Let the love of harlots be sanctified.' ~unknown woman

When you come to me, realize I behest
no edifice. Love me in a gutter
or not at all. I merely want to rest
my temple on your temple - to utter
“Hosanna” in the shared throat of a split
alley; to awake spread beneath heavens,
frank before your eyes of melted wax, lit
with a tart torridity which leavens
my body as if I were dough submerged
in a puddle of consecrated wine.
I will pour holiness as honey, splurged
on rose hips and sopping clothes: our benign
impurities to dulcify and bless -
I ...

Read the full of Benediction

I Will Be A Story

I.
the day began as a mirage.
dressed in the garb of a wise king,
i dab frankincense on my wrists
and stumble into the desert searching for stories in the sand.
i find no surrealism in the sun. illusion
cannot be blamed on transitory light. it is my eyes
which censor the spectrum of time.
with a dangerous emptiness, the wind

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