evoking new loveless design –
slaying god in pans refine
flag-me new Jerusalem
godamn-glock goddamn godamn!!
high holy helleh
the song remains the fame
stupid girl is dead forever
twilight jane only sweets never
want you to want me velvet surrendure
monicking falsetto elvis brines
sale-ing to byzantium
golden dead attican names
anthem bly-thed cambridge brass
satisfaction mass; north atone
silver sabbath copper grass!
birmingham keys ballast mass…
class-if-eyed
by Andy Psomopoulos
young god punk –
pulling red string
sky silver funk
the other thing
bladed operator
wheeling entropy
slaying dragon bators
inversing destiny
class-if-eyed cornea cosmic
domination rock
druic idol peny
classic outer clock
porngrind evolution
elvis one and 2
operating station
spitfire caption crue
baroness redacted
bad-bad movie shrill
stellar xerxes captain
a celling- a swaning bill
smiling frozen roses
peck assemble lines
dregs the spotless poses
and plastix beauty fines
daylong sweet-cold motors
anti-gravitate
contrast divine liverwurst
fore alice cooper fate
rosycross silvana drop
the kreamy Byzantine
frankly mate for perfect stop
regal skulla fein
orthodox invention
out studio please
twin tower acoustic
exacto mass tease
commerce to art
retains sum glass son
illiads grace
pan amerikas strong
young god punk
pulling your string
slay silver junk
the other thing
radio(n) pastors
flying masters
lips of golden brass
more power guns
new day funs
kissing booths and curses
we pick standard daisies
and daffodil lead
atone all the grasses
claim thee a dead
escape tombs and volumes
invade you so said
shine-sweet-venom-news-paper
nothing is red
in itself rex beauty
is all and all is shed
Gone to the Animal
Rodney Nelson
you remember the May you went
on a steeplechase of one to
the Jim River valley
before
your age of commentary the
bustle and flounce you were hunting
you do
and would not have to wait
or pray in rage again because
every hill you saw had a
new green
you remember riding
out of the tallow you had been
and into buffalo meadows
that sunlight made open
you do
with bustle and flounce and your age
of commentary gone because
it was only the buffalo
you were hunting
now you take on
the very expression of one
the deliberativeness too
The Village Part of a Time
Rodney Nelson
it took up more of my childhood than
any other site did or would do
and included my friends wielding spade
and rock to kill a gopher and one
late-March day when the melt had exposed
the droppings of winter and town and
town dump looked much the same even if
the geese were dinning north
but also
the heavy summer green that a hand
had planted and the cut weeds’ stink where
a man worked his scythe into what had
grown wild out of hand and peppery
leaf smoke in autumn which included
a friend’s old dog killing an old tom
and then holy wax on a wood pew
during the indoor months
how can I
declaim the loss of the morning when
we wonderers were turned out into
a fenced prairie tract or of a time
not over yet that has come around
indirectly and gathering up
the histories of all I am now
to my later better site in it
as if the town had told
what would be
At the Mournful Resort
William Doreski
At the mournful resort the tourists
cluster like flies on carrion.
No one wants to be alone
on the shore of the bottomless lake,
under weepy spider-burdened trees,
or even in the breakfast room
where the lone waiter sobs because
forbidden to quit. I won
a week for two, airfare included.
You refused to come because crimes
against nature don’t intrigue you,
and perching this expensive spa
in the center of Borneo’s least
spoiled jungle offends you. You chose
wisely. Something ugly haunts
the lake, misting into the rooms
through the air conditioning to trip
nightmares of gray shapeless forms.
The craters of sultry volcanoes
hiccup gouts of steam, the meals
are sloughs of pink and bleeding meat,
the beds inviting as open graves,
forestalling the sexual adventures
that spice most successful resorts.
Spiders have bitten several tourists.
One died, three lost limbs to gangrene.
A child drowned. The lake tossed the carcass
ashore with a crab in its mouth.
On the third day I called a taxi
to get me to the airport to escape,
but no one would come. I’d walk
the entire sixty miles, but head
hunters still prowl the bush. Maybe
I can bribe the waiter to drive me
if he can see through his tears.
Can’t say I wish you were here—
the hills too steep, the foliage
too dense, and the other tourists
too glum for you to ridicule,
the sulfur reek of the lake too thick
for sugary rum drinks to flush.
Wine for Breakfast?
William Doreski
Wine for breakfast? In public?
Your spaniels cuddle underfoot,
flap-ears luxurious as mink.
The waitress snickers. The wine
arrives in tall glasses suitable
for gin and tonic or a rum drink.
Pancakes big as spaniel ears
appear on a serving tray. We fork
our servings and stare with wine
dazzled eyes. Butter drizzles
and syrup cloys. We’re sharing
a moment we hadn’t foreseen.
Last night a pair of planets bumped
in two-dimensional space. Mars
and Venus, actually millions
of miles apart, seemed to collide
as one eclipsed the other. The crash
occurred in the witnessing eye,
where the two planets exploded
into one. Yo
u shared that witness,
and suggested that the planets merged
because the universe had tired
of mythology and had decided
to destroy the cosmic evidence.
That kept us tossing all night—
the thought of stars rearranging
their patterns, zodiac displaced
and sailors no longer sailing
their tall ships by stars. Your dogs
cried and huddled under the bed,
afraid we were engaging in acts
they wouldn’t understand. We weren’t,
but after a few wine breakfasts
we’ll learn to accept the universe
in its new configuration; and maybe
we’ll then distort ourselves with gestures
equally applicable to flesh.
Currency Exchange
William Doreski
When I bring in wood for the stove
my hands ache like a pair of grenades.
I broke at least one finger in each
on different occasions. A punch
in a bar fight, a slip of hammer.
Now in stilted January cold
a week before my birthday the pain
stiffens, and when I drop the wood
I gesture like someone drowning.
Snow today, three or four inches
of sullen cover to heal the wounds
left by a summer of planting
exotica that won’t thrive here.
We need more wood so I dance
back outside and brace myself
against the snow-mist wind seeping
from the west. Tall pines outlined
against the overcast look grim
as jurors. Wood-carrier filled,
I think of Eliot at Lloyd’s Bank,
his long dull days of currency
exchange, his evenings writing letters
for the Criterion. The wood tumbles
onto the rack before the stove.
A couple of spiders dash away.
I’ll have to vacuum them later,
after I’ve soaked my hands in hot
water and Epsom salts. Making
fists to wave at this universe
keeps me alive. If the distance
between land and sky decreases
much further, I’ll have to lie flat
on the frozen earth to rebuke
whatever god or law of physics
applies, the snow gusting though me
like a lifetime of regrets.
America’s Sex Life Has Tired
William Doreski
The heat is raw enough to spoon
in thick gobbets. Driving home
from Boston, I note that small towns
with their fast food outlets, strip malls,
and farm stands never change enough
to please mental cartographers
like me.
A century ago
these towns shucked most of their farms
and commuted to the city
to sweat in offices where wood
blade fans wrestled in windows
open to catch the faint summer breeze,
while in winter coal-fed boilers
grunted in gloomy basements.
These bedroom communities sigh
because America’s sex life
has tired. Everyone’s too fat
and monoglot to sample
each other in terms sufficient
to meet obscure but authentic needs.
Weeds thrive at the roadside. Houses
wrapped in slick vinyl siding greet
their returning owners with gasps
of air-conditioned but hardly
breathable air. I drive as fast
as I dare, braving cops hidden
in turnouts sheltered by foliage
and the deepest possible shade.
They’re sleeping away their shifts,
but now and then one lifts his head,
still drowsy, and glimpses a crime
somewhere on the horizon.
Another forty miles to go.
The distance seems too flexible
to fulfill itself, but I drive
anyway, unfolding the only
mental map I’ve ever carried.
The villages conform to me
instead of me to them. The road,
despite the heat-softened asphalt,
maintains a clear right-of-way
to a bitter but satisfied end.
Fresh from the One Great Holstein
William Doreski
Two bottles of milk appear
on the stoop. Fresh milk fresh
from the one great Holstein
that looms above us, mooing
through the night to comfort us.
You aren’t comforted. You fear
that once the creature has noticed us
we’re doomed. The final day
of June looks innocent but sad.
Lupine droop on inadequate stems.
Deer have eaten the hosta. The bear
has tipped the bird feeders. One
limp fledgling weeps in tall weeds
as its parents flutter and fuss.
You’re sure the over-cow parses
our quarrels and judges us
accordingly. You’re sure the milk
will sour us whether we drink it
or not. I tuck the bottles
deep into the fridge where maybe
they’ll freeze. If the parson
comes to tea I’ll spike his cup
with this über-milk and maybe
he’ll envision a new zodiac
capacious enough for us all.
But the parson thinks we’re atheists
and won’t set foot in our house
without sprinkling holy water
everywhere, blistering the paint
and poisoning the hollyhocks.
You like the thick glass of old
fashioned bottles so maybe
I should pour the milk down the drain
and save the containers. But
the great Holstein would notice
the waste, and it never forgives.
The sigh of its terrible udders,
deflating in the stratosphere,
would keep us awake for years.
From Whence I Came
Meredith E. Torre
I think that I imagined you.
You pretend that I imagined you too.
Maybe you imagined me.
Maybe I feel fabricated now
because I am waiting for you to imagine me again.
Will you play me like a song?
You can’t get it out of your head,
but you can’t remember the words…
Maybe you are somewhere, feeling overcome just now,
waiting for us both to disappear
while I am ruminating over the hunger,
consumed by what cannot be fed.
I see you vast, not godlike, but the allusion would suffice:
breathing me out from somewhere beneath your lungs involuntarily,
pushing me reluctantly out from your sleep, into the dimensions
of half-truths, where I might collect the blame.
Didn’t that episode begin in Eden?
Knowledge is painful.
You probably didn’t appreciate that part. Make of it now what you wish.
Mortality is a burden.
Never believe it, too much of a good thing can be just that
and nothing is ever good enough because if it is
you need more, you want more…
but I couldn’t stop and accidentally ate the leaves.
They were bitter I’m telling you, the real killjoy.
Betel, lime, and tobacco—
As I ate I heard the words of a song in my throat,
but I can’t remember how it g
oes…
I keep on humming to see if I will slip on it one of these days.
It is more important because I forgot it.
Lada, lada.
Even now when I imagine it,
I see a fog rising in the room, simpering over the carpeted floors,
hovering close by the dial of a retro-looking radio.
You aren’t close by when this happens.
In fact, you never have been,
hence the need to connect you with the song,
a song you don’t know, but it suits you all the same.
The words march right by me.
I want to grab one by the shoulders and shake him,
but he apologetically turns his gray eyes from mine, made grayer by his uniform,
as if I should resign myself to a universe of imagining what cannot be,
the universe inside myself that I cannot shake outward.
If I could, I’d spin that tree back out behind the fog people and eat myself silly
and then curl myself back into the breath of your sleeping.
I know that you made some part of it,
but want nothing more to do with it.
I’m only a synthetic dream
that you’ve outgrown
and I’m strong enough to endure all the little deaths
that precede that final one.
Or stubborn enough, you’d say
and you’d be right.
I see the words to the song--
I see how they like soldiers they march and limp along carrying rifles in a hurried, but unwilling fashion.
They aren’t singing, but humming.
Lada, lada.
Gertrude Stein’s Balloon
Meredith E. Torre
Gertrude grasped it tightly once William had given it to her
and she carried it to 27 rue de Fleurus and everywhere else
and it was her balloon and it was not,
but she thought it was and sometimes it was blue like the sky
or pink like something it was supposed to be,
and if she knew what that was it was like her words
that sometimes were here or there
or just floated vaguely atop her shoulder
to impart meaning or hot air.
One day she let Sherwood have the balloon
and Ernest took it from her
and Pablo or Juan made drawings of it, Henri a painting,
but Ernest said it was all a lot of rot.
A balloon is a balloon is a balloon, is a balloon, she said.
Henry and Anne
Jennifer York
Two ghosts met on a deserted beach. The man was naked, yet in his hands, he clung to a rusted metal crown. The woman wore a white wedding gown, and was obviously pregnant. Her belly protruded out from beneath a corseted bodice. Her hair hung in gleaming red curls. Though dressed as a bride, she wore no ring.
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