
This is a drawing
that has two sides, as drawn in
an open sketchbook,
and the halves are meant
to contrast and echo each
other only now.
This is a drawing
that has two sides, as drawn in
an open sketchbook,
and the halves are meant
to contrast and echo each
other only now.
purple chrysanthemums
when he’s locked
in currency
his girlfriend he presumes
can’t smell her rose
his long black presumption
in the dark
it’s nobody’s job
to shine boots
antoni sneaks off
stateless watches
arrange shirts the hour
he’s locked
each day precedes
verde lungs
value in chrysanthemums
his girlfriend dollar watches
blossoming arrangements of purple
he presumes he can’t smell her rose
he presumes blackness further
his girlfriend presumes he can
smell her boots
arrange her shirts
the hour sneaks off
locked in the dark
each day
lungs verde
it’s nobody’s job
to dirty dead boys
in the dark
Oh, I see
time respools
— encomienda
one expects shudder
to agree with scythe
but instead — prisons
Cortés-like — discovers
gold ore floating atop tear
duct digs too hard too
something something in the language
doesn’t leap from the page
languishes low in one’s hometown
well into one’s late 30s one reads
bougainvillea and feels only the moon
disappearing behind the low sun
which long ago blacked
highest mountaintop
cracked deepest ocean
there it is inadequacy unspooling
with respect for the broken pieces one
finds in the sand confirms something
somewhat
beautiful of
gilded roots.
I am not even vaguely interested,
though for a quarter I could be.
I was not allowed to move but when my leg went dead
I cheered it on in the first place.
When they whisper they ought to wear a lead vest.
Their lips look like personified oysters.
When they shout it is usually addressed
to the dead body who owned it before us.
We can safely assume one of them is born
every minute of the day.
When my rabbit ran away it was a great relief.
I could not say so—who would understand?—
So I cried for a week.
Source: Ruefle, Mary. “When Adults Talk.” Selected Poems. Seattle: Wave Books, 2011. Print.
if not changing then flowering but coiled around one's jaw pruned by flowerheads climbing from thoughtful pink illusions outside-in size color everything everywhere grown out of my heads (climbing despite mainland macrophylla here in america which only grows in dangerous popular culture the dangerous species is its own meaning some crumpled syrian estate pruned into blush red flowering plants in japan korea crimea our ashen mainland
a poem is art you make with words
death is the end of the parade, which is to say everglade still
jake is a cake cone, vanilla soft-serve, rainbow sprinkles
noon is a mystery until noon
art you make with words
end of parade, which is to say everglade still
cake cone, vanilla soft-serve, rainbow sprinkles
mystery ’til noon
art you make end cake cone, vanilla
soft-serve, rainbow sprinkles noon
art is soft
scribble spears
scribble the physical
meant it too
so far apparent sharps
stationary school
slippery sand outpouring
she did what she could
be a snake if she said she
would think of some electronics
circuits said she’s wrong whose
service is to remain silent she said
and check out all those cops she said
from a sunday friend
seance she said pointing
some questions for god
Source: Grossman, Allen R, Mark Halliday, Allen R. Grossman, and Allen R. Grossman. The Sighted Singer: Two Works on Poetry for Readers and Writers.The Sighted Singer: Two Works on Poetry for Readers and Writers. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1992. Page 11. Print.
Morning
Now his
Roses
Pallish
Meer