one grain of quinoa
lost among the backs
of plastic chairs
Thrown Over the Loving Board
Thrown over in loving thought
a wife encounters pain through a patchwork of odd parties.
A Cretan is a labyrinth of two part shades and owes the sea shirts.
The same arm stripped a quilt on blended hues.
Only sense of weight can sensation explain.
When a child circumstance befalls reality
settle by crawling the sweep. Previous stepmothers go
dragging at 2 in the afternoon on the longest day, dread
hemisphere help. Undressing with the slow killing of bitter sighs,
dismally calculating 16 aching backs light as the rattling coach
gay all over the house. Mother, beseeching the slipper,
condemns a great deal of subsequent falls.
Nightmare is a dozen half-steeped eyes in the outer dark,
an instant shock but supernatural.
Hands are placed over the nameless phantom
seated on ages of frozen fears. Not daring to drag away
one inch, I knew a gliding shudder.
In the morning I lost the confounding hour
puzzled with awful supernatual experience.
The pagan arm at length sobered, unlocking the clasp of death.
I strove to rouse a snore in a horse neck
by slightly scratching the tomahawk, the pretty pickle, and the board.
art by Paperworker
March 8, 2014
Somehow you’re missing out
on something big—
the green terminals,
the reasonable sweaters.
the continent bellows.
Hollandsaises are flowers
that laugh in all types of weather.
Love is a grabbing arm
after a shower.
art by ashleyjosephedwards
March 4, 2014
Thank God for millenniums of dust
and the situations in poetry Pinsky brought to our attention
many eons ago.
And thank you, purplemonkeysexgod69!
After some syntactical and lexical play,
I found you in the tropical flowers
dusting yourself off in elaborate “numbers.”
And in the back of a pickup, I found brickdaniels
touching lovely uprooted trees in the night.
He’s just an old farmer who loves stalks.
I cannot correct this image. It is stuck forever,
like a lovely electric light or two long hands.
So cruelly it eats me. A shadowless lady
automatically accomplished. I want to erase it
with a two-footed club.
But you can’t change the world overnight.
That’s why I write in simple, blank sentences.
seed texts: Poems of Andrew Breton, by Cauvin and Caws; The Situation of Poetry, by Robert Pinsky
art by collageartbyjesse
where did they take you?
Their black mouths
wrapped in silence.
There is only one subject:
the blind man
at the windows
the eighty-third room
the blue the green
and the sea.
seed text: The Second Four Books of Poems, W.S. Merwin
art by cimek
The woods are an inspiration.
So is the snow.
My lover reheats coffee in the ancient microwave
while Hildegard von Bingen interrogates my presuppositions.
Everyday the world finds itself in orbit around Robert Kelly
and the structures of dream flesh.
Poetry is a counter-attack on the universe,
an alternate theory of animal kingdoms.
Under its intense gaze
the animals swell and protrude
and never lower their voices
never explain why
the pencil of langauge
art by collageartbyjesse
What I Was Doing
Drowned islands were reemerging in my backyard.
Each one was a major Deguy work, composed in his hand,
of the Head of Goliath.
A gladiator converges with modern history
while a black umbrella and dandelion encircle each other,
also in my backyard.
These days channel 3 only shows tug-of-war.
The enchantment begins with racy commercials about
a shocked, young Caravaggian face.
They speculate about limestone, they speculate about blond hair.
They go to the heart of Cesaire’s poetics
and find women raving about the kettle life.
Glance to the west and you will see your soul
glow pale blue in the dark
like thin upraised arms.
In the royal registry, it says you might not wake up.
It says in five years you become a chicken in champagne sauce.
Some people hate poetry because it does not end where it begins.
Some people hate poetry because it is an amphitheater of the mind
where people constantly question each other’s information and solutions.
By writing this, you have entered the contra-naturum.
You look draped,
like a gleaming black lacquered bison.
seed text: The Grindstone of Rapport, by Clayton Eshleman
art by ms. neaux neaux
Everyday I find the poem
holding its arms out toward me,
inviting me to touch it.
But I proceed calmly and quietly
into the broken eggshell field.
I touch the slush-proof boots.
I touch the extra curvy banana.
I touch the wall.
Everything goes dazzling.
Sideways telephones are transversing the freeeways.
Silent dwarves are peeling posters off boarded up buildings.
Self portraits and ironing boards
dissolve into accumlative awareness.
It’s important not to think about the poem
calling you, inviting you with swaying arms
and hepatitis, calling you to pleasant parks
and poets guilds.
Simply be aware of the meaning behind
its seal of despair. Listen to its crying.
The mail arrives.
The soul of a butterfly passes by.
The refrigerator’s drone transmits mystical explanations.
Thin coffee blooms into coke cans.
seed text: The Collected Poems of Ted Berrigan
art by fugga
A hundred years from now
it is raining in my room.
From the window
eyes looking at themselves
on a white horse.
Beyond that, the hillside.
Over the ocean
two old peasants
of an angel
its threads made
by the light of the candle
in many dwellings.
Man makes his poem
the hard road
All things must vanish
into the lake.
seed text: Eyes to See Otherwise, by Homero Aridjis
art by I Am Shipwrecked | Collage Art
I Am Not Made for Oriole Opium
I am not made for oriole opium.
I am not drawn to look at your tentacular veins expressively.
My felt grey hat was not automated
to growl in the YMCA between your gold ingots.
My disc is not shaped to snack appallingly
when it’s pressed against your rubber castles.
The black feathers of my white opium are not meant to be
a graveyard for your rose dew to squeek against.
The water of my morphomatic revolution is not formed to be
the land of your fallen arch.
My vagina is not meant to be your preternatural identity
because your central dream is not created to be my solar splendor.
My ticky-tack gloss is not oil-slick because
it would talk for hours about Spain.
The dream-rivulet of my body is not meant to interconnect with yours.
The alchemical books of ancient lovers are not meant for you to appreciate.
But my mystical death, my dear, is against the door melting with pride.
This I am okay with,
if it means triangulating the harmelodic pentagram
and obscuring all light
(because this might be the only way
I will distill
the raisins of your timorous flesh.)
Original from Nostalgic Joy:
“I am not made for you.
I am not sculpted to fit against your body perfectly.
My hands are not molded so my fingers
would slip in their right spots between yours.
My lips are not shaped to line up nicely
when they’re pressed against your chapped ones.
The valley of my neck is not meant to be
a road for your lips to memorize.
The curve of my spine is not formed to be
the blueprint of your fingertips.
My hips are not designed to be your canvas
because your hands are not created to be my paintbrush.
My eyes are not this shade because
it would suit the hue of your own.
The outline of my body is not meant to match yours.
The holes in my soul are not meant for you to fill.
But my heart,
my dear, sweet and stubborn heart,
seems to be alive and beating for you.
This I am okay with,
if it means having pieces of you
circulating in me with every beat
(because this might be the only way
I will have you).”
seed text: The Collected Poems of Philip Lamantia
art by owlwise12
not my foot, not my brain, not my concern
along the Mediterranean, the Columbia of my spine
upside-down mountains whose fluids have accumulated on top
driving when you’re this big
when strangers want to latch on
surrounded by as much bare asphalt as possible
gasoline can make any time spring
what I attain isn’t a transmission but a hunt
not 3 countries in 1 day, 5 museums in 1 day.
that night several acres of me were colonized
some people here use books for tires
I knew I was on an island but saw no evidence of ocean or lake
after the sun turns out the light my molecular state shifts to protect me
how can just one door hold back so many stampedes
the arroyo grande cliff dwelling where my stomach was
Dan Raphael’s published collections include The State I’m In (2102) and Impulse & Warp (2010).
Art by Collage Art
I Sought the Lord with Blanket Skins
I sought the lord room that answers a vast forehead objection
supposedly getting used to two dependent harpooners
that decidedly wander, putting up with half of a thought supper.
Ready directly, wood settles the ruminating jack knife tar
diligently under the sale of headway four. At last adjoining, Iceland,
tallow in a winding sheet, feigns monkey lips scalded with fair
meat dumping on the supper box. A dumpling in direful boy certainly
near. Diabolically dark and never, nothing but rare devil does.
He’ll be here that could not help a dark maid be slept
in a bed. Bar rooms know a resolve to look on a rioting noise.
A grandpa crew has the news of Fiji boots. In rolled the shaggy watches
be-darned with stiff icicle ruptures of the house.
A little wrinkled brimmer complained upon a gin, swearing forever cats
are caught off the labrador liquor. It mounted into their general
newly landed capers of obstreperous aloofness. The sober face whole
refrains from sea gods ordaining. But a sleeping partner will venture
to describe the noble coffin. A seldom brawn burnt with dazzling
deep eyes of reminiscent joy is a once-announced tall Virginia reveler
mounting a slip. Missed by favorite bulking, we darted out to about nine
supernatural orgies. The entrance of the semen sleeps two to a brother.
The private sleeping stranger is a strange objection multiplied.
Nor was the earthly reason never a bachelor to be sure
in one apartment covered with blanket skins.
art by Paperworker
This Is the Moment My Chocolate Forgets
This is the ambivalent ceramic my dramatization unwinds.
This is the commodity we pry open in the back of your photocopier, debates
streaming through your intestines, and I cast a lute
onto my glad toe in the shape of your barber.
This is the enemy my snowflake never redrew for me.
This is the equinox in which your granddaughter totals up mandolins and
this is the propane I interpret as subjective content.
This is the structure we taste.
This is the moment I tell you about all the baritones I have expelled
behind my artificial spirit, closed tight in a Ziploc bag,
to millions upon millions of illegal asylums.
This is the moment my chocolate forgets.
This is the moment you give the forecast, not like sunflowers
and recharge your orthodox salmon.
Original from Back Shelf Poetry:
“This is the moment my heart bleeds.
This is the moment we sit in the back of your car, music
streaming through your speakers, and I bite a ring
onto my third finger in the shape of your name.
This is the moment my mother never promised me.
This is the moment your mouth looks like a war zone and
this is the moment I am caught in the crossfire.
This is the moment we melt.
This is the moment I tell you all the words I have kept trapped
behind my rib cage, closed tight in a Ziploc bag,
millions upon millions of butterfly wings.
This is the moment my heart bleeds.
This is the moment you say no, not like this
And turn away from me.”
art by // P*
I Am an Estuary Gone Wrong
I’m both a congregation and an open mouth
i do not come trudging blood and echoes that
argue so quietly about the river’s elaborate
buckle until no one flutters
or concern myself about whether
the corn is blackballing to subterranean waters
or furloughing in spastic diameters
of curiosity. we’re an estuary gone wrong,
my broken sunflower. but the village dillydallies, and we can’t
even dissemble, while the unused fish
reemerges, thawed and red, like the nipples of a sow
in outer space.
original by @heartanologist:
I’m an Experiment Gone Wrong
i’m both the prisoner and prison guard
i wear black and white, and stripes that
morph into out-of-focus microscopic
images until no one knows for sure
whether the microbes are swimming
to shore or drowning in spasmic dances
of death. we’re an experiment gone wrong,
darling. buildings go up in flames because
of us. but the suicidal lives, and we can’t
even burn down a city.
seed text: Collected Poems, by Ted Hughes
art by argyle plaids
I yearn for the oblivion of non-repetitive texts
issuing continuously from the seismograph of Joni Mitchell
whose most unsavory and useful boots
are strained every evening in the neighbor’s bathroom sink
like baby-blue wisdom teeth. Right up through the star hole
is an imagination song waiting to bound,
magnetism ebbing from the hands,
sturdy as planetary poles. On my mind is
the time when there is not the question, a widow in a wise veil.
Tucked in every night, the blessing of
its own meaning, into which we pour your ambitions,
observable only through trapezoid lenses.
Prefabricated bullets deceptively sweetened by formal discussion
chokes my brain in an algorithm of electronics,
but even if supersonic sounds feed me with ithyphallic diseases
the tones of ripe colleges unbiasedly have stolen my heart.
seed texts: The Death of Stalin, by Ivan Arguelles
Come On All You Ghosts, by Matthew Zapruder
Alien Tatters, by Clark Coolidge
Fathom, by Andrew Joron
Tender Buttons, by Gertude Stein
The Alphabet, by Ron Silliman
154 Forties, by Jackson Mac Low
The Collected Poems of Philip Lamantia
art by El gaio