You are beautiful as a telephone, colors
of bone, rocket ship, and cocktail lounge—
Hmm, says the neon sign, starting
an unfinishable thought.
Where do we go from here?
I’m a balloon,
each minute you don’t call is a breath
you blow into me.
I want to be the crackers in your soup,
I want to be your brass compass. Oh, mister,
just thinking about you curls the ends of my hair.
The clock tisk-tisks.
Moon, you old spinster, don’t you mock me
with your pockmarks and your slow, slow travels.
Moon, what would you know, cold as cheese?
Behind a far-off door, a thought about me is being formed
out of nothing but light.
And when that phone does ring—
from “Love, An Index” by Rebecca Lindenberg
Wikipedia Poem, No. 486
sound on wax
father's affect you receive
report this suspension
in midair seraphim
and small scientists
need to employ
receive one house
should appear to be hovering in space
because you recorded
uncertain unstellar star bendstar
show followed by speakers
and floatstars bendstars stay up in
in speakers as
temporary stop job hangstar bendstar
these paternal jags
support of an effervescent decision
this performance weeks before
is only a
Wikipedia Poem, No. 413
“But they know how to pull / Arms in, a reflex of being dressed, / And also, a child’s faith. The mass of stuff / That makes the Sunday frocks collapses / In my hands and finds its shape, only because / They understand the drape of it— / These skinny keys to intricate locks.” Mark Jarman
the roar of the slain protect the caretaker’s hut
that red clay pot portends tracks for the hunt
everything in the red clay pot belongs to the animals
though it is also fed on flour that
as a practice
belongs to those among us who do not touch bone
members of that slain ceremony
light as human gods
travel into prologues great and sprinkled with medicine
the ceremony involves deposited arrowheads emblematic
of horses and sheep and the enemy
eats our history
unlike the traditions of the keeper
the careful hunters of the ocean
- Jarman, Mark. “Dressing My Daughters”. Poetry Foundation. The Poetry Foundation, 2017. Web. 7 Mar. 2017.
- “Zuni Fetishes”. en.wikipedia.org. Wikimedia Foundation, Inc., 2017. Web. 7 Mar. 2017.
“Remind yourself likewise that what you love is mortal, that what you love is not your own.” Epictetus
to your own
that if it
it restrains as mortal goblet if it not
distressed then in its seasons
there mortal that if
behind painted generals when painted to
you may remind
these generals when
you become attached to murmur softly
something else while
your affections nor friends not
love to you a mortal goblet does not wail as you child
then that what harm is
that the appointed became attached
that they ride to it in it on it
It’s unfair to compare the man to the woman one so complete the other bristling with prostate
But fairness was never one for this world
was born with a full head of hair
he took a long time to come out unfairly
his eyes as is normal turned brown
blue in witness he unlearned swimming
Had no teenage years
no earning years
no sweet nor equal years
but instead went straight to death
not with ceremony not with love not with passion
What eulogy now–
He went with truth which did nothing for
he went with satisfaction
too soon and sour.
& how that
onto the clean
white wall. where?
where is the heroism?
(cocksure bravado of loss?
the drowning son
saltwater bites his lungs
his inutile hand
breaking the ocean’s lens?
I’ve gone and given it
peel through the pteridophyta
knee-high, back to skull-island.
they’ll remember you if you tell them
who? what character?
which image? emotion?
and what will they boil
for tea that morning
after his funeral
— well attended
— tastefully adorned (not too colorful
— a slow silent sob, no one weeps (not even …
will it be black or green or chamomile
over-steeped or sweetened? how
at a time like this, can one decide
so freshly alive, so gravitationally piqued
washed red-raw with compassion?
those old films
now significant, so
wall space, interior
as if the boy were climbing
our orange tree
higher, then higher
his fearless lungs full
of bitter citrus.
again, what emotion?
I woke, feeling of particularly base moral character, because of this dream I had.
The dream was built upon a typically gauche bacchanal at a filmic hivelike Midwestern frat house, a free Chinese buffet erected on the street outside operated by presumably a crosstown rival frat, the unacceptable total loss of some unreplaceable button down-type evening wear, and the medically airtight revelation by special hand delivered letter that I did in fact have AIDS, contracted during a blasé threesome during the prior night’s hockey party.
I loved that shirt.
the details unremarkable
but important everything visual
mostly but alkali when you kiss
it isn’t her mouth you taste but your
listing now gently breath bowing out
there on the sea lost in labor
what sense what’s lost and begs no leaving
but for it time gales and there on the sea
floor full of tidal sludge — green, gray
hammering out — a stony pitch:
nothing visual, nothing reckoned
but halved and accounted.
it’s not enough to be
clever; each little sound byte
performance padded; deeper philosophies
cold, carrying scaly sustenance; what is
if not a poem; a hard
tea-thin blade dimpling the pink
precious flesh of yr mother’s throat
oh to bring her back; oh
to save her;
a poem —