Miyazawa Kenji

Wikipedia Poem, No. 971

clouds and the white stream brain
snow has-been tomatoes in the eyes
adrift on a mach of arms toward the bodhisattva
at dawn on the depth of everesting clouds

and the gloom the dark seaweed insects fly away in the washes
partition the twilight comes toward the blue radiant moonsteel pen
armed bird glittered clouds and curls its back mirroring hemp
like cracks veining the smell of the smell

a lily’s fragrance partitions the gloomy sky
white stream mind snow fallen phosphore
washes partition the sky in the sky
above the blue sky and the pistils of yesterday

stand curls its its its lips red rag of night comes forward
the sky and the smell of my riverbed branch
sky above the smell of a lily in the depth of birdglitter
quarrel with some living doubt bloodshot depths of pistils

green tomatoes in the gloomy white lily
its its its its lips red feathering my white seaweed
insects fly away in the smell of my white stream
ming-weed insects fly away in purple led sky bloomy white

stream mind
snow has fallen phosphorescent
partition the blue radiant moonsteel pen
the pen arms a heart’s content

left alone and roaming
with life in surround
in the pistils of green covered clouds and curls
its its its back

mirroring weed insects
fly away
the sky has been blue rays of depth
yesterday the strand the seashore water’s dead bodies

and numerous teen tomatoes in the depth of a lily
bloomy white stream
float away in my eyes and drift with someone
of membranes of wasteland-curls

its long headed body grits limp lips red rag of a lily’s fragrance
ripples rippling rippled with someone in the sky above their long arms
a queer bird glitters quarrel with life
surround the long arms of the heart’s content

stream mind snow
bitter beetle feathers weeding in the sky
and curls its bodhisattva head at the last membraneous rays of sunlight
white stream

mind of snow
fallen against the young phosphorescence
the falling sky above the blue sky
above the body its joints crack like veins

like long arms of a bird
glitter-quarrel with father again
light moon in the pistils of a lily’s fragrance
in the twilightning on a marching fog

almost imperceptible

Collage Burning Landscape

Ridgewood, Sunset

what’s even worth painting anymore? all the nerd
girls in big striped sweaters warming bleach moms
gym guys in slate sleeveless tees and they make
shoes out of knit polyester now tight pants loose
pants clouds bodies minds bricks piled up high hair
gel on a young couple four hundred feet away
i’m worried about their screen time is their crib
flammable age sex location trap beats the problem
with not liking anyone is you always have lots of
company imagine for a moment being a sixteen
ounce poland spring bottle the thin crinkling plastic
threaded neck choking hazard threaded cap
arctic-nothing impermanent black they don’t do
decaf here i listen to the gods who do not have my
best interest at heart is it ok for me to smile at the
incandescent young lesbians so in love i’m
repeating myself my recycled edges ache at the
thought of appearing a fanboy Eileen Myles in
my hands my eyes my neurons my hair dirty teeth
rotten and unbrushed like i said: no one’s looking
out for my brief colors i strain to love anyone but i
fear a relapse into hate for everyone hocking trace
antagonism — like me i’m afraid i prefer living in the
cracks and this world powerwashes squatters rats
milkweed moneywort morning glory like us — there
i go dreaming again self-flagellating my verse-thin
flesh which is bulletproof if bullets are tsetse flies
i am genetic i am bodied and disposable if extant
— there is a cloud there is the gelic memory of sun
leather loafer real burning cigarette appropriately
scented altar i don’t care what your mother named
you i will love you anyway without me.

Parenting after a history of childhood maltreatment: A scoping review and map of evidence in the perinatal period

Il mio corpo sta facendo cose che non ho chiesto al
mio corpo di fare. I am a simple man — gosh —
and I have received the impression your poem isn’t
about the Terrible President. You’re trying to tell us
something sage we can’t hear simply. Stop with
the gosh. Pick up a beer bottle slake of gasoline.
There are many ways to say Mary. Here is my
password: Say rogue. Say scoundrel. I am dying.
Pethaíno. Douse. Sto morendo. Match. My body
does things I don’t ask it to do. My ears bleed pixels
of chlorine of ferric oxide of pine. The kitchen light
never comes on, Mary, you know what I mean? There
are the ants. They migrate from the dry sandy soil
into my possessed things. Things I kill for. Things
I inherit. La barca si schianta attraverso la diga.
Mio la barca si schianta contro una ventola. I
know what you’re thinking: You’re wrong and you’re
wonderful. North star of burning hotel. Star burning.

His Charioteer

Wikipedia Poem, No. 969

secretive unions
any reason to open
new paths for the collared
movement of reason
open new paths
for collaboration
open new paths
for blacktop and feels great great
the collar he loves lifting lifting
and curtail
secretive
right to the course of America

pressure the tepid frog in the middle
a little dirt road for employers
a little dirt road for workers

reason
opens new
paths focused
on boycotts no
my throat hops
into the industry
which thrives thrives
on its accumulation of memory

Source: Bouie, Jamelle. “The Necessary Radicalism of Bernie Sanders.” New York Times, 11 Sept. 2019, https://www.nytimes.com/2019/09/11/opinion/sanders-labor-2020.html.

Isabel II in Exile

Wikipedia Poem, No. 967

understand ennobling forsaken;
struck down, despair; perplexed, in all.

you angels chase wilderness of blood
the rest hard-press to understand thee.

earnest of blood inters irrelevance.

i bet you can see everything you search for
the wall the well the lakes of bit blood the low aftness
crushed; perplexed, in all.

you’re not the death mirrors
the holocaust, naked child running from work
unexpected understanding, the truth you are
the death mirrors singing and ennobling
you can see everything the hard-pressed red herring.

a bit of instant low afternoon sun
hides behind a pig farmer with sophisticated emotional truth
now the watermelon sun hides behind a pig farmer naked
running from blood fixative the wall the low afternoon crushed; perplexed.

inaudacious despair; perplexed, is all.

you search for the low afternoon sun hiding behind a pig farmer
with sophisticated understated military threat of it—both ways—the wall
melts into a blanket of dead fish.

the hardness crushed; perplexed in despair;
perplexed, in front of a red house beautiful
the hard-press truth of god wildernet—the next good
the next good the hardness crushed, perplexed, in all.

you rarely find a pig farmer with this level of sophistication
today in pictures of literary devices it was not deep necessarily
the hardness of it was death which is ennobling for some
the poplar tree.

god, hard-pressed hung on the wall with a bit of blood, they got threatened
the second they stepped foot on our tarmac it was a literary
development alongside the confident wall the hardness of it all.

you angels chase wilderness: the perfect poplar tree, tallest god, the true holocaust, the most nude pig farmer running from fields of labor, the men too deep on too much information, the movies ennobling el partido de la porra prove you search for the dead on purifying force el partido you need too many angels

Artifacts of Reference, No. 60

Artifacts of Reference, No. 59

Artifacts of Reference, No. 57

Artifacts of Reference, No. 56

New Mexico State Gem

What is your name? Never know. Hunched, picked off
a pair’a you—neither crow nor winch. A thing
god backlit in neon after blessing us with neon. And I
know what it means as a poet to carry this heavy basket—faint
mason, invisible stevedore, passage of time, neither good nor right.

I am fearful for firm and misunderstood things—
the spume, smiling inside the gargoyle, cultural forb—
they’re no different as carrion ghouls. Time
has done miserable things with light—he waves no
staff nor hauls no sack of turquoise shards. Quick!

He’s about to make a break for it. He’s about to windlass
Into the clouds, that one’s fancy. The crocodile climbs
many painted ladders. No weighted, pretty purple halos
ringing the eyes of these wordy wraiths—embrace
not knowing your name. I struggle to pull down the old crucifix.