Posts tagged with ‘poetry’

Should Your Heart Skip a Beat When Taking the MBT at Night?

Another morning in Brookland: construction everywhere,
parents caught in the vortex of rearing, my freshly trimmed 
beard. It’s off to work with a whole playlist of new songs to try!
Here we are, scraping the snake rattle, making dub
in the land of continuous displacement. 
The ketchup ovens sing in the street-wise daylight
proactively unshackling ignorant shade.
Here is the Department of Dance, and here are some
trembling poinsettias. Nice gummy punching bag!
Tonight we will sleep in the slight wavering of blankets;
we’ll hit the clubs looking good in mashed tights.
This poem is about no one. It’s about a place
or a feeling, or something between them. 
I pan right and see napkin folds; I pan left
and behold accomplished men. Further left:
Italian priests. With only your neck you could start a revolution,
Brâncuși, and fix the dubious love of penguins.
It costs nothing to wander around this city
enjoying the machines of sentiment.
Life is a constant rearrangement project. Let’s check it out 
with our souls.

art by Arturo H. Medrano

Should Your Heart Skip a Beat When Taking the MBT at Night?

Another morning in Brookland: construction everywhere,
parents caught in the vortex of rearing, my freshly trimmed
beard. It’s off to work with a whole playlist of new songs to try!
Here we are, scraping the snake rattle, making dub
in the land of continuous displacement.
The ketchup ovens sing in the street-wise daylight
proactively unshackling ignorant shade.
Here is the Department of Dance, and here are some
trembling poinsettias. Nice gummy punching bag!
Tonight we will sleep in the slight wavering of blankets;
we’ll hit the clubs looking good in mashed tights.
This poem is about no one. It’s about a place
or a feeling, or something between them.
I pan right and see napkin folds; I pan left
and behold accomplished men. Further left:
Italian priests. With only your neck you could start a revolution,
Brâncuși, and fix the dubious love of penguins.
It costs nothing to wander around this city
enjoying the machines of sentiment.
Life is a constant rearrangement project. Let’s check it out
with our souls.

art by Arturo H. Medrano

What is it that Reminds Us of White Gods?

News that stays news: 
my weekend, full of your friend’s friend,
and envelopes beside a ruined pump,
and secluded recesses
ignoring the frowns of Paumanok’s gray beach
while waving the cosmic towel.

Thy right vein is fading, 
passing away like babes in arms
under the sycamore.
Ah how they’ve grown!
more perfection than there is 
in John Brown’s Body
resigned with anger.

Racquetball players mesmerize the seas
with a fierce threat of social influence
ominous and oleant, while the new moon 
begins to foam its sums,
and doubtful warzones go roughing it
like two incisors 
whenever the Butcher crosses my lips.

It’s with this shout of joy that our blood, breaking through 
for a dream, convenes like otters
in the Epicurean stasis of the eyelid’s soundless blink. 
Wave on corb-apples, lovers in gusty shadow.

seed text: The Best Poems of the English Language, ed. by Harold Bloom
art by Susanne Breuss

What is it that Reminds Us of White Gods?

News that stays news:
my weekend, full of your friend’s friend,
and envelopes beside a ruined pump,
and secluded recesses
ignoring the frowns of Paumanok’s gray beach
while waving the cosmic towel.

Thy right vein is fading,
passing away like babes in arms
under the sycamore.
Ah how they’ve grown!
more perfection than there is
in John Brown’s Body
resigned with anger.

Racquetball players mesmerize the seas
with a fierce threat of social influence
ominous and oleant, while the new moon
begins to foam its sums,
and doubtful warzones go roughing it
like two incisors
whenever the Butcher crosses my lips.

It’s with this shout of joy that our blood, breaking through
for a dream, convenes like otters
in the Epicurean stasis of the eyelid’s soundless blink.
Wave on corb-apples, lovers in gusty shadow.

seed text: The Best Poems of the English Language, ed. by Harold Bloom
art by Susanne Breuss

Meditation on Derek Jeter, His Last All-Star Game

What false hopes you give us, oh living breathing athletes!
Just as we begin fading into the complacency of symbolism,
and naming our children after stars
you entice us with real feats of humanity
and exuberant triumphs! Because of you some of us
have joined The Department of Dance to keep in training.
Others have embraced the cycling frenzy. I myself have bought
a bicycle, which I will mount later, and it will take me through
magical dark streets, down lanes, passed street art,
toward the crystalline sphere of Poe’s “nevermore.”
There will be no ghoulish wind blowing off the harbor
when we approach it. Derek, we want to change the world 
and hand it shiny and clean to our children, named after stars.
Imagine handing the world to your son!—inviting him to open 
and read from the chapter IV, “The Ascent
of Man.” What ascent, you ask? I don’t know yet—but
rest assured: every kind of pleasure awaits us.
I have seen it on my iPad. I have seen it in 
in the leaf crown sliding down over the eye of Bacchus. 
I have known it to be true from the old raisin and apricots 
that emerge from your face when you look at vacation rentals.
And it gives me incorruptible hope; it gives me
a typical nimbus of light.

art by Guido Floyd

Meditation on Derek Jeter, His Last All-Star Game

What false hopes you give us, oh living breathing athletes!
Just as we begin fading into the complacency of symbolism,
and naming our children after stars
you entice us with real feats of humanity
and exuberant triumphs! Because of you some of us
have joined The Department of Dance to keep in training.
Others have embraced the cycling frenzy. I myself have bought
a bicycle, which I will mount later, and it will take me through
magical dark streets, down lanes, passed street art,
toward the crystalline sphere of Poe’s “nevermore.”
There will be no ghoulish wind blowing off the harbor
when we approach it. Derek, we want to change the world
and hand it shiny and clean to our children, named after stars.
Imagine handing the world to your son!—inviting him to open
and read from the chapter IV, “The Ascent
of Man.” What ascent, you ask? I don’t know yet—but
rest assured: every kind of pleasure awaits us.
I have seen it on my iPad. I have seen it in
in the leaf crown sliding down over the eye of Bacchus.
I have known it to be true from the old raisin and apricots
that emerge from your face when you look at vacation rentals.
And it gives me incorruptible hope; it gives me
a typical nimbus of light.

art by Guido Floyd

Poem

July 17

Let’s go sit under the tree and enjoy this fine cool
summer morning!
There is shade—gorgeous, complicated shade—
and a lawn mower is cruising freakishly fast
across the lawn. It knows that we can’t understand
what comes between machine and nature. 
This small orange book in many languages 
proclaims that time marches ever forward.
Whatever happens I want you to keep hoverboarding next to me. 
I know that inside you is a heart, impossibly hard to find,
wanting to open, like it did once in 2003.
I’ve been waiting a long time. We’ve both been waiting.
I’ll just keep injecting fun into your face 
and hope for results. Other sexier methods abound 
but I want to love you and make you laugh. That kind of thing 
still gets folks to react, makes them wake up in the night
in a cold sweat. Rest assured: every kind of pleasure 
awaits us. It’s like a damn breaking, or a massive drop
at the dubstep show. 

art by Eugenia Loli

Poem

July 17

Let’s go sit under the tree and enjoy this fine cool
summer morning!
There is shade—gorgeous, complicated shade—
and a lawn mower is cruising freakishly fast
across the lawn. It knows that we can’t understand
what comes between machine and nature.
This small orange book in many languages
proclaims that time marches ever forward.
Whatever happens I want you to keep hoverboarding next to me.
I know that inside you is a heart, impossibly hard to find,
wanting to open, like it did once in 2003.
I’ve been waiting a long time. We’ve both been waiting.
I’ll just keep injecting fun into your face
and hope for results. Other sexier methods abound
but I want to love you and make you laugh. That kind of thing
still gets folks to react, makes them wake up in the night
in a cold sweat. Rest assured: every kind of pleasure
awaits us. It’s like a damn breaking, or a massive drop
at the dubstep show.

art by Eugenia Loli

The Worm Dieth Not

Mitchell Garrard

Once, you needed a telescope to gaze past the Milky Way.
These days, I curl 40lb weights,do 600 pushups, and 
bench-press the nearest star. My fiancé couldn’t adjust;
he’s become part-human, part-screen. I lament my backyard, 
always changing. Yesterday, I housed an asteroid, but now
I obey an ancient cephalopod. I discovered my fiancé passed out, 
his lips superglued to the TV. I oscillated, “Would you see me 
if I were a man? A man on your show?” A fossilized mess, my love 
was fuel for cosmic destinations. I hooked my brain up to a machine 
that scoops out gray-matter like ice cream. As the engine ignited, 
my bloodied fiancé screamed, “it’s too late. It’s too late. It’s too late,” 
but the only thing on my mind was chocolate covered sundaes.

art by Deger Bakir collages

The Worm Dieth Not

Mitchell Garrard

Once, you needed a telescope to gaze past the Milky Way.
These days, I curl 40lb weights,do 600 pushups, and
bench-press the nearest star. My fiancé couldn’t adjust;
he’s become part-human, part-screen. I lament my backyard,
always changing. Yesterday, I housed an asteroid, but now
I obey an ancient cephalopod. I discovered my fiancé passed out,
his lips superglued to the TV. I oscillated, “Would you see me
if I were a man? A man on your show?” A fossilized mess, my love
was fuel for cosmic destinations. I hooked my brain up to a machine
that scoops out gray-matter like ice cream. As the engine ignited,
my bloodied fiancé screamed, “it’s too late. It’s too late. It’s too late,”
but the only thing on my mind was chocolate covered sundaes.

art by Deger Bakir collages

The Mausoleums

They think they’re so smart, alleviating our guilt.
But no one really understands how leap year works.
They just disregard us as strange and holy forces 
that do not know how to properly spy.
We’re like old fuschia that shoots up, old cronies
at a staff meeting. Who hugs and kisses anyone
anymore? People shy away from that kind of human
trembling. Child care, even, is now a thing!
I can see my coffin suspended in air,
made of white ash. Sometimes it is an old city
that knows it’s old, sometimes a whole block
of mausoleums. Mausoleums with lots of bloody décor
that know animals good to eat
are springing from Prévert’s hat
and that the next Facebook message you receive
will not be your mother. 
Do that thing where you answer impossible questions. 
I’ll be your chest filled with cash, your
dream-come-true machine
doing a ragtime sleepdance 
at your old office.

seed text: Préversities, by Jacques Prévert
art by A.T. Velazco

The Mausoleums

They think they’re so smart, alleviating our guilt.
But no one really understands how leap year works.
They just disregard us as strange and holy forces
that do not know how to properly spy.
We’re like old fuschia that shoots up, old cronies
at a staff meeting. Who hugs and kisses anyone
anymore? People shy away from that kind of human
trembling. Child care, even, is now a thing!
I can see my coffin suspended in air,
made of white ash. Sometimes it is an old city
that knows it’s old, sometimes a whole block
of mausoleums. Mausoleums with lots of bloody décor
that know animals good to eat
are springing from Prévert’s hat
and that the next Facebook message you receive
will not be your mother.
Do that thing where you answer impossible questions.
I’ll be your chest filled with cash, your
dream-come-true machine
doing a ragtime sleepdance
at your old office.

seed text: Préversities, by Jacques Prévert
art by A.T. Velazco

(p)repositions

How to come by a woman.
How to come across a woman.
How to come over to a woman.
How to come toward a woman.
How to come on to a woman.
How to come up with a woman.

How to come on a woman.
How to come before a woman.
How to come after a woman.
How to come with a woman.
How to come for a woman.
How a woman comes.

Come on, woman!
Come over, woman!
Come, woman!
Come off it, woman!

How to come out to a woman.
How to come out to a woman.
How to overcome a woman.
How to overcome a woman.

The Idea

The idea here is that you know things that cannot be seen.
How did you know for instance that I would not want to eat
this book, with its false blue clouds drooping down
in no man’s land, trying to signify our love

which has been repeating the difficulties of life 
like summer? There is no hook from which 
to unhook this, your blood. All I can see is 
a black-and-white barbaric fleece hanging in a field 

over the flag of irony. Which is no explanation
for how you have become an apology of ocean
in my weepy cherry eyes. This image cannot compare
to the holiness of tambourine stew.

And I can only be your water cooler sister
when you gasp for air at the door of male and female trees.

art by Paperworker

The Idea

The idea here is that you know things that cannot be seen.
How did you know for instance that I would not want to eat
this book, with its false blue clouds drooping down
in no man’s land, trying to signify our love

which has been repeating the difficulties of life
like summer? There is no hook from which
to unhook this, your blood. All I can see is
a black-and-white barbaric fleece hanging in a field

over the flag of irony. Which is no explanation
for how you have become an apology of ocean
in my weepy cherry eyes. This image cannot compare
to the holiness of tambourine stew.

And I can only be your water cooler sister
when you gasp for air at the door of male and female trees.

art by Paperworker

Here, I Will Highlight Your Fate with a Red Pen

then I’ll bludgeon your brother 
with talk about athletes in the southern hemisphere. 
Here on the Potomac, the ungainly weeds of tidewater 
wax and increase in the honest sun.
Only, in my mind there is also a meadow. And there is a fox 
and a fence. The fox and fence exist 
in correlation. We learned that
in modern poetry—and how to turn your head
and look out the window at the world, which, 
framed in that moment, appears objective and sad.
Please eat the half-apricot I left you:
I do not want the juices bleeding on the counter. 
I do not want the feezer to smell like fish. Things in nature 
swell in distinct, simple statements. 
Lo the slow-moving clouds and the unfriendly hand
from hell! You have no strength and dolefully 
rest your chest on mine in the despair of the warm afternoon.
I rouse you with kisses and play soft percussion sounds
to break the dull silence. Your sister is taking 
the Bolt Bus to come see us. It has outlets.
What was I saying about a friendly hand?

art by //MARINOS//

Here, I Will Highlight Your Fate with a Red Pen

then I’ll bludgeon your brother
with talk about athletes in the southern hemisphere.
Here on the Potomac, the ungainly weeds of tidewater
wax and increase in the honest sun.
Only, in my mind there is also a meadow. And there is a fox
and a fence. The fox and fence exist
in correlation. We learned that
in modern poetry—and how to turn your head
and look out the window at the world, which,
framed in that moment, appears objective and sad.
Please eat the half-apricot I left you:
I do not want the juices bleeding on the counter.
I do not want the feezer to smell like fish. Things in nature
swell in distinct, simple statements.
Lo the slow-moving clouds and the unfriendly hand
from hell! You have no strength and dolefully
rest your chest on mine in the despair of the warm afternoon.
I rouse you with kisses and play soft percussion sounds
to break the dull silence. Your sister is taking
the Bolt Bus to come see us. It has outlets.
What was I saying about a friendly hand?

art by //MARINOS//

The Tablet of Erected Sisters

007.01

In the same standing chapel a few moods bound 
toward failed spots of morning. A special errand changes 
from driving sleet to wrappings of cloth called stubborn storms.
Wives and widows muffle the shrieks of silent purpose. 
The grief, insular, has not arrived with silent eyes 
or marble black boards. There ran a following of Patagonia
in the tablet of erected sisters. The memory of long 
lacy cruises and ships towed out of sight toward the ground
are placed here by Ezekiel and his bowls. The coast of Japan 
is a tablet of shaking sleet jackets. Turning sideways, 
the solemn curious savage presents noticeably frigid relatives. 
Names were among the many incidents, the trappings of 
unceasing bleak old wounds bleeding afresh 
with buried grass saying a desolation bosom. Bitter blanks 
cover despair’s void. The unbidden refuses resurrection, 
while placeless cave elephants live in mankind’s whys. 
The universal secret of good sand lies in its departed prefix. 
Do not entitle the buddy system with life insurance 
or forfeit unstirred antique rounds if centuries are dwelling 
in hushed rooms. Terrify a city with not-meaning—for faith, 
a dead vital feeling, regards the murky doles 
going before somehow merry chance. 
A stove is brevity and speech. What then
is huge? Methinks shadow oysters observing thick-bodied lees 
make not three staves of Jove.

art by aleksandra waliszewska

The Tablet of Erected Sisters

007.01

In the same standing chapel a few moods bound
toward failed spots of morning. A special errand changes
from driving sleet to wrappings of cloth called stubborn storms.
Wives and widows muffle the shrieks of silent purpose.
The grief, insular, has not arrived with silent eyes
or marble black boards. There ran a following of Patagonia
in the tablet of erected sisters. The memory of long
lacy cruises and ships towed out of sight toward the ground
are placed here by Ezekiel and his bowls. The coast of Japan
is a tablet of shaking sleet jackets. Turning sideways,
the solemn curious savage presents noticeably frigid relatives.
Names were among the many incidents, the trappings of
unceasing bleak old wounds bleeding afresh
with buried grass saying a desolation bosom. Bitter blanks
cover despair’s void. The unbidden refuses resurrection,
while placeless cave elephants live in mankind’s whys.
The universal secret of good sand lies in its departed prefix.
Do not entitle the buddy system with life insurance
or forfeit unstirred antique rounds if centuries are dwelling
in hushed rooms. Terrify a city with not-meaning—for faith,
a dead vital feeling, regards the murky doles
going before somehow merry chance.
A stove is brevity and speech. What then
is huge? Methinks shadow oysters observing thick-bodied lees
make not three staves of Jove.

art by aleksandra waliszewska

Semi-Worship

July 9

It is raining, and there is fire somewhere,
but not here. My shirt is gladiola yellow.
I guess I’ll entertain myself again on the porch
pouring over Rimbaud, or perhaps Hong Kingston.
Everything she says is a surprise, and nature is 
a surprise—like how zucchini grow
from the flower’s stem, and breaking the flower off
helps prevent rot. Thunder is the spine 
of something immense cracking.
Everybody goes around sort of semi-worshiping 
the gods, themselves, the pope.
What madness! Things are always in plain sight 
if you look around. I toil 
with gray light, feeling vague and sophisticated,
not depositing my check in the bank.
The week after next we’re figuratively eloping.
The New York Public Library will be so nice, 
an old woman revealing all her secrets. 
It could all pan out, or it could be a
horrible end to the late night show. 
The lady with the headdress
is weaving in and out of traffic. 
The pawns are moving themselves
on the cosmic chessboard.

art by collageartbyjesse

Semi-Worship

July 9

It is raining, and there is fire somewhere,
but not here. My shirt is gladiola yellow.
I guess I’ll entertain myself again on the porch
pouring over Rimbaud, or perhaps Hong Kingston.
Everything she says is a surprise, and nature is
a surprise—like how zucchini grow
from the flower’s stem, and breaking the flower off
helps prevent rot. Thunder is the spine
of something immense cracking.
Everybody goes around sort of semi-worshiping
the gods, themselves, the pope.
What madness! Things are always in plain sight
if you look around. I toil
with gray light, feeling vague and sophisticated,
not depositing my check in the bank.
The week after next we’re figuratively eloping.
The New York Public Library will be so nice,
an old woman revealing all her secrets.
It could all pan out, or it could be a
horrible end to the late night show.
The lady with the headdress
is weaving in and out of traffic.
The pawns are moving themselves
on the cosmic chessboard.

art by collageartbyjesse

Dirk Geiger

It’s a strange requirement of life—to be sure 
about the things we say and do. 
But everything has a dash of absurdity to it.
Electric chaos skips off in aural whisps from my speakers, 
and every so often a huge waste managent truck
comes to campus and takes 18 minutes
to back up, inch by inch, while alien alarm clocks
rave into the cavernous concrete bay
outside my window. I love my job! I make coffee 
every morning after I’ve made zzzs by my lover. 
Lechery has become organized, untangled.
We have to dance around long pauses and
silent judgements. I’m here to carefully scrutinize
every part of our lives. I lift my coffee to my lips
and feel like quietly singing. Alas! It’s still a tad hot 
and smells like summer, with too much water 
and humid air.

The aliens are showing off again among the stars.
Four Chileans said they saw it with their own eyes.
Who will draw them a diagram of suburban chaos? 
Next week we will go to museums on the cheap. 
Modern day musicians should not have names 
like Dirk Geiger, which sounds so German and cold.

art by bethfromabove

Dirk Geiger

It’s a strange requirement of life—to be sure
about the things we say and do.
But everything has a dash of absurdity to it.
Electric chaos skips off in aural whisps from my speakers,
and every so often a huge waste managent truck
comes to campus and takes 18 minutes
to back up, inch by inch, while alien alarm clocks
rave into the cavernous concrete bay
outside my window. I love my job! I make coffee
every morning after I’ve made zzzs by my lover.
Lechery has become organized, untangled.
We have to dance around long pauses and
silent judgements. I’m here to carefully scrutinize
every part of our lives. I lift my coffee to my lips
and feel like quietly singing. Alas! It’s still a tad hot
and smells like summer, with too much water
and humid air.

The aliens are showing off again among the stars.
Four Chileans said they saw it with their own eyes.
Who will draw them a diagram of suburban chaos?
Next week we will go to museums on the cheap.
Modern day musicians should not have names
like Dirk Geiger, which sounds so German and cold.

art by bethfromabove

When I Feel This Way

July 8

It is another superhot day. The Scandinavians are cheering for us
to stay chill in this greed of July oven heat. 
I was happy for a few moments this morning 
when I said something I kind of liked, 
but now my mind’s bogged down with big aureate creatures called
“careers.” I have to work so hard just to be someone’s slave!
I wearily check Facebook and encounter more naked, 
tattooed athletes.

After I eat this chili I’ll think about how to propose. 
I must propose! I must propose!  The Atlantic is tugging at me,
pulling me in the opposite direction of where I want to go.
It is wonderful and overwhelming. All these variables of life
we can’t control, like the economy,
and brown patches of grass on my lawn that come every July
no matter how much I water. Even the feeling that 
my glasses are on top of my head when they aren’t 
somehow gets wrapped up into this. 
It’s hard to understand what’s happening 
when I feel this way. To not be afraid in the face of the unknown 
like an Old Testament prophet—that would make me feel better
about people, literature in all times and places, rave parties, 
and old fashioned values. My boss just handed me 
ten slips of paper, handwritten. Each one requires an action 
and must distributed. The last drips of coffee
are coming toward my mouth as we speak.

art by Manu Duf

When I Feel This Way

July 8

It is another superhot day. The Scandinavians are cheering for us
to stay chill in this greed of July oven heat.
I was happy for a few moments this morning
when I said something I kind of liked,
but now my mind’s bogged down with big aureate creatures called
“careers.” I have to work so hard just to be someone’s slave!
I wearily check Facebook and encounter more naked,
tattooed athletes.

After I eat this chili I’ll think about how to propose.
I must propose! I must propose! The Atlantic is tugging at me,
pulling me in the opposite direction of where I want to go.
It is wonderful and overwhelming. All these variables of life
we can’t control, like the economy,
and brown patches of grass on my lawn that come every July
no matter how much I water. Even the feeling that
my glasses are on top of my head when they aren’t
somehow gets wrapped up into this.
It’s hard to understand what’s happening
when I feel this way. To not be afraid in the face of the unknown
like an Old Testament prophet—that would make me feel better
about people, literature in all times and places, rave parties,
and old fashioned values. My boss just handed me
ten slips of paper, handwritten. Each one requires an action
and must distributed. The last drips of coffee
are coming toward my mouth as we speak.

art by Manu Duf

Poem Written in the Middle of Some Awesome Nature

1

The river-bird men sing heroism
in the tin-expanding heat of playful summer.
In the delta of breezy shiver. 
When the strong sun is a birdthroat typing,
when the nearest tree is a drown,
when the dust is allotted to peels,
when we impose on each other and draw near with ease,
then the bank has a cloning fork 
by which frogs enter sleep, and, having a new bias,
soon bring the reason-hum flyer beliefs
to semi-transparent photosynthesis guns.

Trunks call attention to themselves.
Who really knows where this tree came from?
This trunk, these roots and bad limbs?
We’re on our cellphones and our limits.
Helmets are less of a combing than pits.
Snail’s-breath hangs over the tip locking out
what hasps.
Which snails give off a kind of light?
Can frogs make wholes of music?

Loose in this flame of gum, nests puddle at my coal.
I remember how to fat.
Mentally strong tethers lease my sprocket-pots.
You know we are in Walden’s pond
when flies cap off every store clock shoving
and ask nothing in return.

Depend on the musk
and you will follow the crab—
a yellow Orleans finch pool
nagging the wrong bag.

2

One leaf rips against another—a relief.
Or a catterpillar sandwich.
Let me key your hand.
Packed with golden alone totems
as mermerism debits the spruce.
You could enuse with moles, but sample cattle.

I have a been to a camp with bras
from which I’ve learned to leopold sleep—
to give breath and voice, to never
go dark upon what was meant to seam.

A heaviness is flogging me, 
keeps mapping up in long tablueas,
melting in snog the deep furloughs we bypass
neither happy nor entreated.
Cool as nasty pus, paragons tack away their flaps of rust.
Test drive the goal until the whither
has its oil belt implied by likes.

3

Selfies corrupt in fact-cables; the tin 
seizes no more. We can increase a lung of punning
by hatching coded belongs.

Insperspersed black dragon heaven
needs reapproachment with tangled nudes.
Nieces’ advice is to down-flip along the cool pine
crackled with coil. I’ve let loose your lemon pool.

art by feru-leru

Poem Written in the Middle of Some Awesome Nature

1

The river-bird men sing heroism
in the tin-expanding heat of playful summer.
In the delta of breezy shiver.
When the strong sun is a birdthroat typing,
when the nearest tree is a drown,
when the dust is allotted to peels,
when we impose on each other and draw near with ease,
then the bank has a cloning fork
by which frogs enter sleep, and, having a new bias,
soon bring the reason-hum flyer beliefs
to semi-transparent photosynthesis guns.

Trunks call attention to themselves.
Who really knows where this tree came from?
This trunk, these roots and bad limbs?
We’re on our cellphones and our limits.
Helmets are less of a combing than pits.
Snail’s-breath hangs over the tip locking out
what hasps.
Which snails give off a kind of light?
Can frogs make wholes of music?

Loose in this flame of gum, nests puddle at my coal.
I remember how to fat.
Mentally strong tethers lease my sprocket-pots.
You know we are in Walden’s pond
when flies cap off every store clock shoving
and ask nothing in return.

Depend on the musk
and you will follow the crab—
a yellow Orleans finch pool
nagging the wrong bag.

2

One leaf rips against another—a relief.
Or a catterpillar sandwich.
Let me key your hand.
Packed with golden alone totems
as mermerism debits the spruce.
You could enuse with moles, but sample cattle.

I have a been to a camp with bras
from which I’ve learned to leopold sleep—
to give breath and voice, to never
go dark upon what was meant to seam.

A heaviness is flogging me,
keeps mapping up in long tablueas,
melting in snog the deep furloughs we bypass
neither happy nor entreated.
Cool as nasty pus, paragons tack away their flaps of rust.
Test drive the goal until the whither
has its oil belt implied by likes.

3

Selfies corrupt in fact-cables; the tin
seizes no more. We can increase a lung of punning
by hatching coded belongs.

Insperspersed black dragon heaven
needs reapproachment with tangled nudes.
Nieces’ advice is to down-flip along the cool pine
crackled with coil. I’ve let loose your lemon pool.

art by feru-leru

At the Heart of Every Poem Is a Feeling
July 7
Another summer day in DC,  and Kenneth Koch is helping me talk to the birds. I see a pregnant woman in compression pants,  another pregnant woman in a black dress.  I have so many questions I want to ask the Pope but he’s not here—again! Would it be justice to make love to all of them? I think maybe: I’ve always been the one  to take the road of all possibility. I guess that means I’m nearly done avoiding myself, for there is little to see by looking through the wrong thumb.  Why are there apartments and cafes in the mind where impossible questions always hang out  and never leave you alone?  Please help me, God, make a mighty smile  and enjoy the splendid day! I walk around campus,  thinking. Sunglasses go on and off and the clouds keep changing the shade. A brown paper napkin flies up in the breeze from the clutches of laughing girlfriends. Time to head back to where the water is still cold.
art by hheininge

At the Heart of Every Poem Is a Feeling

July 7

Another summer day in DC,
and Kenneth Koch is helping me talk to the birds.
I see a pregnant woman in compression pants,
another pregnant woman in a black dress.
I have so many questions I want to ask the Pope
but he’s not here—again! Would it be justice to make love
to all of them? I think maybe: I’ve always been the one
to take the road of all possibility. I guess that means
I’m nearly done avoiding myself, for there is little to see
by looking through the wrong thumb.
Why are there apartments and cafes in the mind
where impossible questions always hang out
and never leave you alone?
Please help me, God, make a mighty smile
and enjoy the splendid day! I walk around campus,
thinking. Sunglasses go on and off
and the clouds keep changing the shade.
A brown paper napkin flies up in the breeze
from the clutches of laughing girlfriends.
Time to head back to where the water is still cold.

art by hheininge