Love Poem

Wikipedia Poem, No. 903

the heavy thumb of the apocalypse
taut line completely ignored
left hand of panic openness space pause
i had a girlfriend
who stole me books
was the earliest gospel
just to escape his terrible flailings
the intense confusion
mob of dogma jesus dolefully debates
a cry for his moral and ethical message—
one lives by sailing against doctors’ sacrosanct spirit
rather than debating pitifully one’s own cry for help—
the unscalable pure voice of confusion
reveals itself when one falls after love

gringo interventions & coups d’etats

Wikipedia Poem, No. 895

the picturewomen that brought the fair says the flare of mysterious sun nests in blood. the same age i waited for you in the girls we could break into goodness. like as in loved. asleep. you die. no sun in roots and whiskey and seems fair though therfucking the place up, tangled in a ghost—hieroglyphics i dream of spider blood. like love, with its finger on the bar, i dream of you at scale, just a kid, really, laughing in place. tangled in a ghost—hieroglyphics i come to understand the girls we made you soak in barnight. i come to nests of you instead. i say lookout with its clear finger. what’s new? drugs wet with clear-air always sitting in nests of mysterious spiderstands they’re sitting out fucking you with stars. nest of mysterious sun. the girls we loved. asleep. you instead say, stay, i look for you, you, you in rootblood. the fair thought-fish, painted-ghost—hieroglyphic dream of mysterious sun in rootblood. the fucking on and ever clutch a dream like love ever asleep. you in roots and nest of sun in roots and place, tangled-in, but older. the same eventualities, laughing off of my fucking stars. i come to the coast, no one’s i light say, i drown in roots and instead, instead, instead. i stood lookout with tears. i come to understand blood. loved. asleep. you instead. i theater the barstool look for you where no sun in the blue-black sea they’re impossibly large spiders. i say, i dream of a mysterious man in a good mood. through the nests of wet fingers clutch the bar rag covers neon clutch at midnight, i look for yourself. good. the blue-black thigh, terror fingers the bible like a ghost—hieroglyphic dreams of tears’ stars. nests of example; eventually the fucking stars. the ripping of an abandoned highway, i dream of oscillating black preserved in some anonymous monkey’s heart, drown in neon; came on eventually, flicked really, laugh—they’re just stars on a path. flare of mysterious roots now love asleep—you, subsumed by coast.


Source: Kennedy, Christopher. “I Called Shotgun When You Died.” NY Tyrant, Tyrant Books, 11 Jan. 2019, magazine.nytyrant.com/called-shotgun-christopher-kennedy/.

Poem after Personals in The New York Review of Books (Soumettre à une Interrogation)

Wikipedia Poem, No. 798

soixante-dix

man seeks unattached heart 
woman seeks mature gent 
mannattached heart woman 

seek/soumettre

intellectual secure companionship 
vibrant as a travel agent 
	que vigoureux 
  	cherche femme 
	sachant que vigoureux 
	cherche femme sachant 
	la vie nous délaisser 

for relationship 
for travel 
for heat 
vibrant 
	que vigoureux chercheur 
	femme sachant que vigoureux cherche 
	femme sachant que vigoureux 
	célébrer 
	femme sachant 
	que vigoureux cherche femme 
	sachant la vie délaisser

active kind 
	avocat new yorkais 
	soixante dix 

ans eclectually cultured companionship 
vibrant as a trailer hitch 
	la male et taureau lointain éloigné
for passion companionship travel vibrant 
	que vigoureux 
	cherche la gonzesse 

la la la
	whoa whoa whoa
		la vie nous quitte

How to Raise a Premodern Family

Wikipedia Poem, No. 743

JMG_1298-3

Suicide’s Remix (branch6) (work in progress) Joseph M. Gerace

                  disappear into  a  cloud  of those big slick cartoon bombs
pair me with the twin cities or cuyamungué flint or kalamazoo or
something        coal blackboard    anime avocado cowboy            
self-doubt gender cowboy hunger sound of hunger 

to the best of your recollection       how fast
was the joke? a revolution? an iphone? (there, it's just 
bored with the sick hiss, sparkling like a labor union)     and 
did he erase words one by one? 
sparkle me on the sick risk of memory

somewhere, it's january. I'm in my blue hat just asking a simple question here
                       with an iphone held over my little blue hat (there 
there, it's just    a question    about speed, about how fast a joke, a revolution, 
an iphone pairs with an iphone and then it's just a joke again, 
but a new joke something like the old joke but less like a revolutionary.) with
a pair of blue hats now, some smaller and some larger, we're 
in new york taking meetings then we're in L.A. — I drove past it once, 
says the poet — taking meetings because all the emerald 
coyotes      consider  unionizing          and their  friends  
all those big        slick cartoon  bombs    they have 
iphones now and their iphones have iphones to feed and little blue hats

Bernadette

bern

 

I sit in bed beside you, shearing,
Heating pad set to medium;
You say I couldn’t handle more.

You’re looking for work.
I’m reading about poets in
Monochrome.

Meanwhile, your fingers ricochet
Like ants across the keyboard;
Pfizer has some jobs in La Jolla.

I don’t want to reach over and fuck you
Nor use my teeth to puncture your pliant neck,
How glorious to be at peace

Despite all the canned blue passion
Radiating my brain, our out-there gray
Lives, like the promise of snow.

Pain always produces logic, which is
very bad for you. That’s not my line
But it’s a good one and applies here;

Women are bred for pain, they’ve got it
In them. The trick is to realize not everyone
You think is a woman is, my friend. It is dark

Now. The weather report predicts snow overnight
And it is rare the weather report is wrong
Anymore. Four to six inches. This poem

Is about fucking. Or not fucking. Or refusing
To write in bedclothes
with blood.

‘Do you need some more right ears, David?’

dublin

do you need some more right ears david?
insert this monkey’s jaw in the space between
the ridge of the ear and the skull? (what is the
name of this extra-hard portion of skull? place
yourself behind the eyes of the croaking
at the bottom of the well y’all read that
dystopian joint, right? if it’s not the question
make it the question the tattoo gun’s inkless
pain not traumatic pain not turn off their mics
pain norman wilkinson glorious connective
tissue brooklyn botanical garden spindle after
spindle of pink thread plexiglass emotion torn into by the drill
bit fastened into the skyline yellow power tool
you ain’t shit without the green palms
atop the far-off balcony (i don’t much like these people
yes yes i’ll say it true gorilla glue too-plastic
reams of adenosine reams of headaches
reams of just fabulous four-eyed ooogling
can you believe what this bouquet cost?

success flower
gourmet flower
torn-muscle flower
fart flower hipsters

flock to see my job is simply to fool you into collecting
my eggs the whole identical alabaster set 144 in all before
abandoning your family leaving only the heavy eggs behind
go to dublin and find someone performative
to love as much as i loved you the right hand so persuasive

Monadnock

Wikipedia Poem, No, 691

w691-final-small

      in some countries hair 
pilcrow blossom falls 
  
     she is you remember that
a good husband avoids 
     a cross 
 
time bothers neither alluvial husband nor empire 
husband nor backwoods 
husband 

nor line them up on my own thread
      across 
      time 

      i return to my 
collapsing honey-clings to my 
    life my wife that white refusee there and not 

      the first time staring beautiful you said a fistful 
of memories    you covetously       
          having 

         never 
been inside 
my mind 

    9.4% alc/vol my lips do not behave 
like the good husband nor the quiet car 
away from the 

        aerosol 
kudzu 
that honey-pillow goddess pun

Hermit Thrush at Sunset

Wikipedia Poem, No. 681

birthday

the belly converts jealousy
to the plants’ eyes roll
my wife from under
the bed exposed and melts
into black coffee like the
songbird she is

Orpheus Charming the Animals

Wikipedia Poem, No. 646

w646-sm

“How each child finds that it must deal with / the intolerable // becomes its fate.” Frank Bidart

A note for readers: Each occurrence of an asterisk in the following poem represents one slow, deliberate breath in through the nose (at least three seconds) and out through the mouth (at least three seconds). Silently count each inhale and each exhale. You are permitted to think about anything at all during that time.

washed 
the boy
    around 
photoreceptors the 
      charming  
audio 
the particular order of a baroque story 
gathered beside hair 
around such magnificent 
photoreceptor density
the forestage animal-watch 
these animal sounds through hyper-baroque storytelling 

*

gather boys 
the effects of living 
          blue eyed doves and such 
      as such 
as ammonite political sweetness 
my wings perceive something blue eyes he twists 
   listening 
on the boy in fancy dress the poet 
expects listening blue eyed doves such magical upheaval 

upheaval upheaval upheaval 

* * *

english 
       fancy 
dress symbolism panel justice boys used on the air sounds
photoreceptor thighs
que story gather round boys 
use the crickets bloody death outspreaders 
don't be shy 
who are these animal cruelties among you
orpheus such 
      magical 
      upheaval english fancy dress 
my wings perceive something blue 
eyes 
     twist like political 

upheaval 
upheaval 
upheaval 

* * * 

english fancy dresses poet 
         and never 
          look back orpheus charming as a 
      hyperbaroque story gathered like wildflowers 
   boy with no insect parts like rainfalling the recording 
         booth 
      i mean 
garageband's 
code hung like draperies all another boy used was the 
      monastery between its thighs
on tour (such magical upheaval     english boys 
dressed like symbolism for christmastime
      panels filled just 
with boys 
          in fancy 
dress symbolism 
        used 
       in the composition 
      of blue 
      eyed doves 
subduing on 
      a mogul josias murer's danger-room i mean 
      garageband's 
        code 
    hung 
like 
draperies 
all 
      the 
crickets bloodparts 
insect legs turn from the crow 
an 
         avuncular
order then cruelty auditory charm blue 
      eyes twisted living noise 
  cardinal wings perceive some thick round noise 
         by rubbing blue 
eyed 
         doves such magical upheaval    english fancy 
dress symbolism 
    boy upon fired
ink all the recording 
hyper noise recording 
         baroque 
stories 
gathered breasts
used on 
      the 
monastery crow artist 
         as auditor is 
a baroque story gather 
     baroque boys 
to such magical effect

upheaval 
    upheaval 
        upheaval 

* * * 

english 
         fancy symbolism 
just any boy copy
and pasted in crows gathered at the forestage 
cone density through hypertext and expects 
living noise by 
      the rubbing together
      the phasing through 
      of ora serrata
perceive something blue eyed 
doves subduing 
    death     or are they crows
    outspread wings perceive something 
    together handheld boy 
        on the free monastery tour 
   (such magical upheaval english fancy drapes

 

“Mocha Panties” by Arielle Greenberg

locallymadepanties

You have your skinny pants that you never wear
but that are the barometer. You have your fat pants
that you wear more than you need to. You have your
period pants that are dark and thick and forgiving
and comforting.

You have your period panties.

I have a new resolution not to wear my period
panties at non-period times. I have gotten into the
habit of wearing only my period panties and pretty
much never wearing my other panties, my nice
panties. My resolution is to wear nice panties every
day, even the days I don’t think l’m going to have sex,
even on the days when l’m going to ride my bike.

Once, in the locker room at the YWCA after tot
swim class, I saw another mom who was wearing
beautiful, chic mocha panties and a matching bra
even though she had just come from swim class and
had a kid. The panties and bra looked French, and so
did the mom. I swore right there and then to wear
my nice panties every day, even though my nicest
panties aren’t as nice as those panties were.

But then I got pregnant again and never felt like
wearing nice panties.

So that was three years ago. Exactly three years and
I am finally hoping to make good on my promise of
nice panties.

Thus far I have kept my nice panties promise for
about a week and a half. It’s been difficult. Almost
every day I reach for my period panties but I haven’t
relented. It does feel good to wear nice panties,
though it pains my heart to get on a bike or go to
sleep without sex when I am wearing them.

Even when the nice panties are not two-hundred-
dollar hand-washable silk tap pants, nice panties
are a conundrum.

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If you enjoyed this poem, please support the poet and purchase Arielle Greenberg’s fascinating, honest, nuanced and insightful book “Locally Made Panties”.