Collected Poems of Introduction to Poetry Writing Class Fall Two-Thousand Six Mary Szybist, Professor Anthology Design by ely kahn
True Broads Dylan Kruse
I pity those whose women can be bought For something cheap as words or silly verse. True broads are not for sale and can get off With poems they pen themselves and well rehearsed. Their image trapped on paper is a cage. They’re sick of being pinned beneath the glass. They’ll pick their pieces up and leave the page. And yearn for what they couldn’t learn in class. For all the tortured time that Petrarch spent, His lovely Laura danced with common men. The feisty girls of any age resent A man who can’t perform without his pen. So quit your sonnet, drop your poem kid, And get the women Shakespeare never did.
I don’t think my hands like me, Because they can’t just be. They’re like army brats, Always shifting location, Meeting new people, Discovering other worlds. But rarely allowed to just be. I wonder if they know who they are. They are disgruntled factory workers, Lifting this and that, twisting, turning. Break time. Stop and stretch, then the whistle blows. At the end of the day they are grumpy, Stiff, sore, and shaking. I wonder if they’ll quit. I certainly would for such little pay.
Hands
Still, they get revenge. They are poor actors. I hired them for a supporting role But they take over the show And they blow my big moment, Remind the audience that I’m faking, Recite their own monologue, And show up at all the after parties. But they can’t just be, And I think they’re getting sick of it. So we’ll find a common ground. Sometimes they surprise me like children When they show their parents They can do it by themselves. So I let them grow up, And don’t worry too much.
Dylan Kruse
But I’ll still stay in touch .
Maple Leaves in October Christen Kiser
Rosy finch on the fencepost, Sky turning custard yellow to blue. A maple leaf falling catches the subtlety of evening color, alighting on a crest of cool air. Its veiny structure balloons it through layers of blue sky, slowing the dissolution of yellow and gold light. Grasses rest below Crisping leaf weight. Bare branches inch into sky. Ground growing brown Beneath the maple leaf That fell through blue.
I didn’t want any flowers, I only wanted To touch the blueness of sky, to Dig fingertips into the rind of an orange, Citrus-spongy whiteness under my nailsI didn’t want flowers, but I licked here And there the citrus-ness Of an orange from my fingertips Under a blue sky. The sky touched oranges Hanging from the branches of a tree. Spreading the bright citrus-ness Across the horizon-
The citrus-ness hung above A meadow of wildflowers I didn’t want. I didn’t want any flowers Beneath the blueness at my fingertips. The sky shimmered clear-water light With oranges, and I plucked them From the blueness and licked The citrus-ness from the rind. Orange-tongued and eagle-handsome, The bright rind under my nails, I touched the blueness of sky With my fingertips. Not the flowers.
Touching Oranges Christen Kiser
The whitecapspit I have just plucked THE STONE I HAVE SUCKED DRY
Coastal
Dani Prados
I am the little man who smokes and smokesI am the little snake with writhing lungsI am filled with twisting ropesI am climbing ladder rungs… A smallish stone I have just plucked A WAVE I HAVE CARESSED Beat each other around my anklesMy pulse is night un-dressed. Summer water licked by light, Summer eggshells in the sand. I am stutters thick as nightI am writhing on the land.
I want to hear a kind of keeningI want to stretch like a rubber band. The smoke is full of waterdreaming; I am spitting up the sand. This thudding wave I have unearthed THIS ROCK THAT BEATS MY BLOODBEAT AND HOWLS… I am nailed into thin yellow wallsI am little. Yellow water to keep me inI have grown slick seaweedskin. I am stripped of wet white woodI am the snake that smokes and writhesI am without root againI am buried half alive… I have touched the firm-smoothness of drenched stone, THIS STONE THAT BEATS MY BLOODBEAT AND HOWLS…
And I have seen the ripe red veins: (And I have grown sick seaweed jowls) Sandshells bleed like sugarcane… (And I have written a poem) And in my version, the water is writhing. -and I am singingAnd in my version, the water is dark. And I am the smoke that drifts, empty.
Dali’s Private (or, Opera the Temptation of St. Anthony) Dani Prados
Out here the man with the flat circle over his head He made it all too easy , watches a sky with the expression of salt. that Master of the Dripping ClockHe stares as hard as his crackling eyes will let him for who could trust elephants on insect legs at this violet desert, (no matter what gold or feminine curves this unfracturable angular shell of a backdrop, balanced so swervingly in the briny air)? and ignores with all his feeble naked power what billows on his right, and dominates. Here, scream the elephants, rich furrow-flaps of sweetthick skin Twitching in the hardened air. Here, pant the women, undulating through windows And on spires, and rub their scented flesh. Down, thunders the horse with every aching pound of his immense white frame, and pushes and pushes at his icicled hooves. He towers, but does not move. The sky is open, and cold. Someone somewhere, ant-sized, is playing appropriately tinny music.
I am thankful for the bus ride home. This morning, on the way to school I saw ten open hearts on a kabob stick— Trees in a perfect row, they had changed their color. Disguised now in one hue of brilliant red.
Stop! I wanted to cry out. Stop the bus. I wanted to pick leaves. Little hearts fit well in a box. To: you From: me
Drips of blood sprinkled the sidewalk people passed, undisturbed by— the passage of time.
hearts of the trees in a box for you Laurel Coats
DivideLaurel et Impera Coats
Out here the children have the expression of too much playtime, of death in wartime. Who is this boy looking at us? It’s naptime and he refuses to fall asleep. His plastic shield is down. He no longer pleads for breath.
And what of God, standing in the middle of it all dressed in candy yellow, he is pleading innocent, with his right hand up. I didn’t do this. And what of the angel elephant perched above the bears? Why is he fading into darkness? Who is this troll, blown flat against the trunk of a tree? Alive, but smirking fear. The inmates, if that’s what they are, He was the baby put to sleep, have won the battle with the children. before the inmates invaded. It’s 1997; it is America, and plastic steeps imagination. Out here, teddy bears rule the world. Though a little glimmer of green grass, See them? Lined up behind the spaceship an open landscape, peeks through the hedge, that landed late. the robot with the bazooka prevented any escape. Who is this bride dressed in white? Desperate, she is purity. Out here She is William Wallace, screaming freedom before execution. the children are dead before their time.
In moonlight, Vines tougher than wrists Are able to twist and flick Their leaves, twist and flick, twist Flick their leaves. In moonlight Under the darkness and the stars They forgive their roots, And entwine in the dark.
The light streams. And the dusky mouths release, Calling into the dawn as it breaks, Tasting light, Reveling in the radiant taste of deep color. They spit out their soft blue Into the rush of radiance.
But the clenched roots stir, And the pursed edges of petals Yawn out their dusky blue into the dawn As it breaks; the sky’s soft purple spilling outward Is their breath embodied, In the way that purple spills and swells.
In the dark, thick and tough vines Are able to twist and flick their leaves, Forgiving their roots in the moonlight. At dawn, they want to go further, to spill Into the purple that swells in the sky.
Dawning
Maya Chensue
Maya Chensue
feel lighter when the wind is blowing. 9 IMyalways ears prick up
Nine Ways of Standing in the Wind He came as a voice upon the air, through every 1And Hollow and into every spirit, and they feel His breath, And they are filled with joy. 2She wafts exotic scents across the earth, Oh! My hair,
3It’s escaping its curls.
Sweet musks and ancient spices in her hands, Bearing the memories of countless years That were, and are to come.
Such a chill around my ankles— Whoops, a playful one, Tossing my skirt in the air!
4The uneven heating of the earth’s surface (by the sun)
Creates high and low pressure centers in the atmosphere, and they interact By trying to equalize, the air flowing from high pressure areas Toward the low.
5
As though I am listening for the daily news report, The swift wind is the only herald of the storm. In a thousand outgoing breaths carried on the air. His angry brother howls across the desert close behind, Rushes up beside you in ambush And crashes upon you with gleaming eyes. The beetle in the sand Scouring the earth Notices that the neighboring mountain Of stillness, he lifts the buried Has grown taller. Sands to unearthed life.
8
so hard, and I am out of breath. 6 IButrannow my kite is flying!
7
Blowin’ like a flower in the wind Bending like a tower in the wind Every man needs a guitar So he can say what’s in his heart And his song can go singin’ on the wind
Illustrious Time Buried Man Danica Yates My perfect man exists but now eludes me. Pure wind-silver nakedness leaves gaping hearts clinging only to obscure mystery. There is no discourse, only imaginings that cause wretched nights of tear bled ardor; and guts. . aching flames smolder through kidneys Memory feels like the mad vacancy of a misty gutted house, lit by flickering candles that tease rays through windows into heart dark woods. He sings ‘I’ll see you soon,’ so I stop my heart to wait. The kitchen walls press into me sitting off kilter. The smells are sterile. I peer down a lonely hallway of dim suspense. Fading wallpaper colors numb spiraling echoes of pain pleasured screams. I probe out my arms like effort tendrils towards future air but withdraw shaking muscles and try to cross them in my lap. I’m cold on the wicker seat, above a tear puddle shining below on the kitchen tiles and ruts, pondering emulsified dream drenched plans of pure summers
Embarrassed to speak spark, he too is sad and drenched like cold wet wick lying on warped floor-boards of empty house. The charcoaled puddle of his tears seeps under the closed door from the room next to mine. His immature guitar strumming solstice pulses through stucco and vibrates the kitchen air. Music I cannot touch, should not hear, keeps my wet dreaming eyes wide in my wind-silver body, perched strained on the edge of my seat.
Peak Middle Sister
The horizon-line of Middle Sister arches like a horse’s neck, prestigious white out of the basalt ridge I’m cresting. I squeal and reach my hands out, towards twilight clear sky tussling snow off her summit.
Danica Yates
Anticipating through deep spired couloirs, my peripheral sight glows blue under her ice cliffs, thin air. Her body rocks me around the corner to her face. Look at me. She’s wearing a smiling rim of light like a crown.
To the glacier headwall, in now milkyway black I erect my tent home at the entrance to her pulsing womb. Siren gusts slice down her body and freeze boil my blood, rippling through veins like the snow water quivering on blue flame stove.
To the saddle then west, every step respects the frozen cliffs falling off below heaving gusts. My breath offers oxygen clarity, strength that unites me in her breathing magic.
Then on my back beneath orange canvas, 4 am ticks through, like those passions always tick tick ticking round my mind. Indiglow lights up and soon my blue flame’s laughing.
My ice axe plants forwards, down into her body. Steps pulling in and out for balance safety as the winds scream and toss me, breathlessly bringing me to her summit heaven in the squall.
Boots and daypack straps holding my body together, focus amidst a heartbeat energy of lusty ventures. Dawn unties the dark bows of her gown and crampons kiss me into her glaciered thigh.
Straddling the peak point rock I sit naked and exposed to the air and earth below. I curtsy to my goddess, pull up my parka zipper like golden panties and repel her north face.
Over one shoulder sill kissing thanks, I trudge out in smoothie slush. I’m giddy shy, she bats her eyes and sings a soft goodbye.
Guaje Pines Cemetery: My Grandpa’s Funeral Santi Walker The sun was warm and gaudy flag stripes of carnations decked untended marble markers. The sun was warm, it made sweat dribble down and stick my dress to a textured plastic chair. It seemed ridiculous to be wearing black. The sun was warm and the huge, flushed, fat, black, mound of a minister clearly agreed with me. The sun was warm. Little Betsy was wearing a lip stud, a camo hat, and acne scars. She is taller than me now. The sun was warm when we stumbled through Amazing Grace— a discordant sound. I kept the program to learn the words. The sun was warm; the carcasses of burnt pines circled the ridge and pricked their points into the wide sky. My dad talked about fire and irony.
My mother sobbed. The sun was warm on the pine wood box with a cheerful butterfly motif scarring its side, above a branded daisy. It seemed odd to put a man in a six inch canister And decorate it with a daisy. I didn’t want to touch it. So I didn’t before they put it in the ground. The sun was warm; I wanted a hat The sun was warm. But it would clash with my dress. I stole his hat once and hid it. The one he used to wear before the battle to hide baldness became a long dead fiction. He was angry and wouldn’t leave the car. The sun was warm and no one knew how it was supposed to end We all shifted anxiously until my uncle said it was over. He was crying. I was not.
The Manager
Santi Walker A crimson cradle Against the smoky, ash colored light, And spreading fire of the sunrise; Lambs jostle each other Inside their barrack holding pen, Crooning for their dams In faraway pastures. The crack of the barn door, Thrown back, Echoes like a shot, And flakes off rusty paint Shuff of and drift down Onto fleecy new born backs. They stamp and cry And smell each others’ panic Charging forward Into the waiting transport.
In a desert land where dry winds dance over the desolate sand-dunes, Where merchant men meet and drink, muttering promises meant to be broken, Where the land of burning sand burgeons with burnished gold, spices, and bright jewels… In this land, the winds whip a woman’s black hair up from the waves cascading to her waist and the strands stream out behind her, while grains of sand sting her face. Her flowing dress flutters and tries to fly, while her phantom feet dance, flit over the freeblowing sands. She sings, and her strong voice, her searing song and dance seduce thirsting skin. And the merchant men and their camels stop and feel it. And the winds whisper it. And, delirious, desert lovers follow after it.
Arabian Aphrodite Sarah Thomas
Patient
A weak sun shines in, Leaving the grand paintings, Upon which eyes never gaze, Dark. And the rich fabrics draped over the writing table Are in shadow. Sunlight shines only on our living faces, I squirm, impatient, and earn a gentle glare. Connecting us to the outside world, And I am still again. Drawing my eyes away from this house, growing old I try to be patient, wait That I dust and clean in futility, To deliver that letter. Although my lady’s eyes stay calmly But my lady writes so slowly… (She is always so calm and unperturbed) So, I let my mind wander to summer, On her writing paper. To caressing my irises, catching the scent of roses…
Sarah Thomas
Outside, the trunks of the massive oaks descend To the carefully laid bricks of the path through the flower garden, Which is filled with dry stalks and stems of tulips and roses and my soft irises. My eyes reach the little gate And I see my Johnny waiting there, A whistle on his lips, a high, sweet call to my lips. He waits as I must, he doesn’t see me up here at my window…
Can you see the sunset? The splendid brilliance has Transformed my eyes to stained glass Where they are church windows, obstructed by the black holes of my pupils.
Will you ever forget? This sensory dream is fading, And I wish for you to remember The purple quilt draped on the sun, As it melts into the horizon.
Are you enjoying the clouds? The rowdy tumbling and lumps, Sewn together with silver lace. They float and they wander Uncertain and content, Like slumbering whales In the ocean.
In the dense perfume of twilight I take your hand in mine. The evening music swayed me, And it seemed the right thing to do.
Do you like the moon? Dusted white in muted sun It mirrors the departing star As it slowly, and without ceremony, Rises into the sky.
I feel the grass between my toes And the tree behind my back, On a hill holding your hand, Watching the sun fade from the sky.
Can You See the Sunset? Benjamin Brody
The other horses, they never knew, Of the mighty mare that almost flew.
But instead of the prescribed amount, Of which the horse took no account,
But stopped to a sudden, shocking surprise – He didn’t discover till he opened his eyes.
It was in a meadow of stately stallions That wore rich coats of shiny medallions,
He filled his potion to top of the glass And injected it all straight into his ass.
His muscles had become so limber and spry That they caused a jump which cut the sky.
Thought he’d experiment with steroids.
The very next day all eyes could see An oddness with the scrawny beast.
A little confused, but nonetheless pleased The horse was just happy not being teased –
But taking steroids can go very wrong, Even when horses are taking them.
The horse had a pair of monster thighs, Which steroids caused to triple in size,
He wandered on, and cantered with clouds. Filled with glee and neighing aloud,
This foolish steed, ordered online A box of Ettenbaums fifty-nine.
But the rest of him remained quite gaunt A look which no fair steed would want.
He slowly fell from the world that day, As he lay on the grass and drifted away.
With a warning printed bold and red: “Over-use, and you’ll end up dead.”
Still, the misshapen horse only had joy For the easy success of his hasty ploy.
The worms eventually found the corpse Of the very dead, but smiling horse.
See a single dose of the powerful brew Would be enough for me and you.
He immediately galloped in celebration And began to jump with jubilation,
And the other horses, they never knew, Of the mighty mare that almost flew.
Dali’s Horse Takes DrugsWhere a skinny horse, whom no one enjoys, Ben Brody
He looked outside, the clouds were moving slow. The water ran across his soapy chest.
Epiphany
Andrew Thayer
His life had never felt so cold, so low, The world had posed its thought; he failed its test. The drug still coursed within his pulsing veins, His eyes teared up, his rage shrieked out its shame. The echoes mocked; the wall he smashed with head. The poison flared; his life he wished to maim. The water shut off, he’s still drowning off-shore. The water shut off, he’s placed his hands on the wall. The vision passed, he looked and saw the door.
The gaggle of geese beneath the tree Produced a pie of fresh fried tea. On top they tottered a teaspoon of grease And all the apes that ate had seen Sickly slugs being salted on the beans That decorated the divides of the treat. Who could covet the candy-like meat? Who should shave the shadowy feet? Perhaps the penguins that pranced could meet The amphibian and amorous aardvark’s seat Of love and lust like a lonely leech. Now place the pieces into the heat And broil the biscuits on a roasted beet. The crust should be crunchy, the insides sweet Politics pie makes 8 servings and can be served a la mode. Does not refrigerate or stay fresh. Gets old quite quickly.
His failures, sins, his pride had made the fall. Drugs or none, the world would see, His was a life, an art, not meant to be.
How to Cook a Wonderful Politics Pie Andrew Thayer
The Ides of March
I remember laying on the floor, then, My finger kneading the carpet. I remember whispered tones and a surprising tear I remember crawling building a wall on your doorstep On my cheek. And avoiding your gaze. I remember looking for patterns in the plaster For weeks we had played a game of house where, Of the ceiling, Even the bickering was real The moment when we became two separate people, I remember your basement apartment Conversing, finding those words for an Where we could pretend to be adults. awkward farewell. I remember relaxing as I left, I remember the fog of several minutes alone, One more errand complete Bewildered I remember the phone pressed against my hot face I remember a paper bag on my belongings Pacing in my room across town Folded at the top.
Dylan Beamer
In the quiet of the morning when no one yet has awoken I find you. The night time was your companion, your eyelids flutter in sleep The morning will pass before you wake and find me gone. Maybe you will feel my absence from your side Groping in the half sleep stupor for my touch, but The morning will pass before you wake and find me gone. Daylight streaks across your unwashed hair And you change your position in the bed as I dress I wonder, are my sow deliberate movements noisy to your ears I watch your face that’s lost in dreams and stroke your cheek A smile flickers across your lips in the half light And you pull the blanket tighter around you The morning will pass before you wake and find me gone.
When I Wake
Dylan Beamer
Loud, Peaceful Moments Alex Martin
I sit in my still car, A still car, but not a silent car. For the splatter of ten thousand tiny raindrops Falling down on my canvas roof Forming soothing, gentle notes A rising, falling pitter-patter. These raindrops Make music so magic. More magic than ever was made for a guitar, More magic than any great classics Or hip electronics Slick studio tricks, Loud party kicks, Epic harmonics, More magic than anything sounded so far.
The rain, it comes in waves. Always a gentle pitter-patter; Now louder, Now softer, Now faster, Now slower. It’s like my body over the years; Now fitter, healthier and slimming, Now fatter and uglier. And like my mind; Now gladder, Now bitter, angry and spiteful. Like my future, Now hopeless, nearly nonexistent, Now, it’s so much brighter.
That rain, pitter-pattering on top of my still car, Oh it makes me so happy, To be alive, To be awake, To be aware. More happy than I’ve been so far, More happy than I should be by far.
Unreachable Alex Martin Eyes watering in the blistering wind, I remember its unbearable searing on my back. I remember the morning was clear and cold, And I remember the view of the city, So cold that we were shivering slightly, but we were happy, That exquisite icon of civilization, And happily, we started the long, draining climb, sitting serene and peaceful, Climbing, slowly grinding on our pedals, up to the summit. The sun softly setting down behind it. That distant summit imperceptibly moved closer It was framed by the sea And closer— Reflecting that brilliant orange glow. It was so close, but totally, completely Close to the top, unreachable. I remember when you stopped. You collapsed on the side of the road, miles from home with no way back. Back in the depths of Steve’s eyes, I remember seeing that fear Confused fear, mirroring my insides. My insides swirling, I remember your pale face, Your shivering mass, Your exposed arm goose pimpled and pale, Your dead eyes. They were not closed, but you were so completely unreachable.
In my hot hand, her sick weight sagged. I buried Abigail between the Japanese Maple and the highway, Under pounds of cold sediment and feathers and red dirt. I buried my rejected notions of God To give her lasagna and trash and white snow, To give me those things too. I buried my girlhood, and crawled around for days Learning how wings worked, how earth tastes, how bodies sway I buried those ghosts, the spiders I washed down the drain I buried the still meteor in my throat, though it pulled and gnawed and haunted Wailed and whistled, wriggled and writhed. I buried her bones and I said three white prayers. Cold cold cupboard, nary a gnaw. I buried my apple heart, dolorous with vines.
Abigail
Emily Bernstein
I remember when the winds came, Through the roaring and growling, and the night our senses flew away. The banging of the screen door, We sat on the porch of my Georgia house, My nose whistle and your tinnitus, At the edge of the world, We heard the deep orchestral swells of nothing. Dizzy and heavy and panting like hounds. Before, we would dress up each other, The rain rendered my hair, the trees, your eyes In razor wit trousers with lingerie scales: Colorless as oil. Hidden beneath the curls and whirls of poetic parasols. The rain wrapped like gauze around us, But that night we were just cold. The sky, a giant grey whale belly, opaque and rubbery. “There are no stars tonight.” I said to you. I laid on you, and felt your warmth “Just lemons in the trees.” So tiny, like a cricket, I was thrown against your cliffs. Citrus constellations pierced the din I pleaded but promptly conceded. You were an old man, and me just a sugarplum babydoll-With such ambition as to rock you to want you to kill you Listening to Joy Division, on my pink porch The bloody and grotesque lyrics, and your grey reminiscence It’s too bad I was not As meek and mild as the girl-child you wished for.
charm Emily Bernstein
If the fruits are the fruits of our sin, Then how many apple trees burn in our darkness? Sweetness is not a pure blood syrup But a scar, openly betraying it’s mythical mother By burning across her face With the same shame and pungent stickiness as the apple trees in the darkness. You remember, in the darkness; The darkness imprisons the fruit, Unlabored, drowning in the blood, In the mouth, in the mythical mouth of the mother Who was so defied and now blames The darkness and her blood for the fruit.
If I eat this apple, this fruit, Do I follow the tradition of betrayal? Was my blood bitter before the sweetness Or does the blistering saccharine delight make me Wonder how the bitter betrayal tastes? Fruit is no sin Though fruit was the sin That fruited forth a multitude of sins, So serious that fruit requires now A warning of its sweetness. It too must bleed for the blood it has taken.
Fuji Lg. #4131 Washington (Product of the USA) Kitty Smith
Aubade
Kitty Smith
Your skin is stitched into the sheets, You try to break free of your unwanted kin The places where you and the down congeal burn and itch, Lightly tickling each other, beginning to notice me. You are warming the metal banisters of my arms As you crawl up my steps. Your blanket body opens like an oven Full static energy But your light bulbs are blinking in and out Covered by a lampshade unmistakably feminine
“I am not human,” your little bread box Body buzzes out With the vibration and vibrance Of a ringing bell Or a broken radio station.
The hands tangled in my hair confess like a choirboy Eagerly flipping through a book of verses Trying to find the right one. The dirty glass of your cheeks tries to hold back the truth Of a beating heart controlling the veined blue waitresses inside Who have memorized their tables and walk their walk.
Express permission Is the intangible key to my sister’s room. That jewel-box, That circus of whims. A zoo of jumbled plastic animals Turns wooden shelves into forest lairs. On a higher altitude, their plush cousins hibernate Behind spiderweb walls. Amniotic cyber-pets prowl in their pocket-sized wombs, The guardians of that folded white napkin of a laptop. Many playthings are marked – Sinus-tickling dust Slides over them, like a blind man’s cataracts. No empty void would dare to exist here. Bubble-wands and beads divide to multiply; They mean to swallow the voids, Once they’ve choked down George Washington’s head.
Untitled One
Kate Schatz
Untitled Two Kate Schatz
Music was loud and the house a crowd, And the boy could not abide it. He pedaled to the woods his family owned, A place with a climate more quiet. Hidden away is a dim green grove Where the boy often reclines at ease In a yellow cradle of many mushrooms, As they tremble in the breeze. In two day’s time there was a tap at the door, And in marched a man with an enamel smile, “Your woods would be great as an office complex; If you sell, I’ll make it worth your while.” The boy’s mom pondered the plea and replied, “The TV fees won’t pay themselves, sir, And the electricity bills don’t give me thrills So I’ll take your offer, for sure.” The boy begged her not to but she bore no ears. Men came to level the land with serrated machines. The boy heard whirring-whacking-hacking from afar, And winced - too distressed to witness the scene.
Soon even the echoes died - leveling done. The boy began to forget his one-time hideout. There are parties to be present at, And philosophy tests won’t fill themselves out. One grey day, the man showed up and said: “The fellows working on my property, Well, one day just didn’t come back. Can someone take me there?” coughed he. The mom forced the boy to guide the man, Squelching through mulch the bulldozers had chewed. Behind a frowzy fence of trees the former grove was found, And the pair paled at what they viewed. The ground was shredded and machines upended, Machines wrapped around by huge mushrooms stalks; Legs poked out from beneath as the wrinkles of one Humongous fungus formed a skull that gawked.
Romeo
Daniel Cochran That thou hast had a finer moment, let me go, how sadly she decreed. Thy stubborn kiss cannot provide atonement, for thou hast failed thy only deed.
Her eyes leisurely scrolled upward, while a faint smile presented itself. And lover’s locked lips clutched tightly, making innate and purposeful contact. You can be my Queen, And your delicate kiss will compose my eternal dream, if you let me put your mind at rest. Though the swampy eyes of the damned reach out with all their might, And dark clouds chill a chilly night, I grasp you firmly and offer a tearful kiss.
A daft yet cunning hero unsheathes his sword, but the ghastly spirits relentlessly amassed. Their venomous kiss cannot be ignored, yet on one knee the fighter still fights. But the serpent claimed his prey, and skies parted, and lovers lay, aground with hands astray
The post afar sits weak and clearly dire, but crows are perched and simply wish to sing and dance and stride along the sorry wires; for crows are not afraid to use their wings. At night the birds will rest so soft and still, but screams and crying scare and startle them. awake, the birds now squabble loudly and shrill. The rain unable to quell the shrieking men. Away ye’ filthy vermin scowls a drunkard, I swear to cut the chords and leave you dead! Ba’caw ba’caw replied the stubborn birds, you fail to scare us foolish hosed inbred. a snap and cry so loud the man lost grip, and down he tumbled drunken like a mick.
Persistent Poachers Daniel Cochran
I remember us watching the weight of the water stretching the red rubber tight and wide down wobbly and nervously beneath the faucet of the sink turned up full blast, the anticipation of explosion spread giddiness between us.
Red Balloon
Laura Bonin
Eeore sulks like a red balloon Three days old. A large white palm grips a red rubber balloon. Fingertips compress Up and inward. Dull nails dig until One POP punctures A now shriveled red skin. Little Simon’s chin floated down When he realized his red balloon Was only growing further and further Above his head.
This garden had special trees where Bulging beneath fuzzy fan-shaped leaves, Red balloon fruit hung out their heavy bottoms teasingly. Step 1: Step 2: Step 3: Step 4: Step 5:
Grasp tubular neck of balloon. Inhale deeply. Place rubber ring of tube to mouth. Exhale forcefully until all air has left the body. Repeat.
He tried to be still. He observed the silence of the red balloon Outside the window. He tried to be still. He can’t find the tiny red balloon nuzzled away. Red Lights Flash: HERE!
You are an explorer, My little lost ant, My little red balloon. Untie your ribbon and be free. Package contains: 13 Red Balloons. Caution: Choking hazard. Ages 4 & Up. He kissed me that night until I turned sixteen. I’ll never forget Covering my lips sore and swollen. Red balloon inflammation. I barely recognized my mouth.
Volkes Wagon back seat sibling war Grinding against fine smooth hairs The one red balloon, attack! Static sticking clinging reflecting. This moment. The sexual tension between us Bobbed like a red balloon.
Fat Kid Summer
Laura Bonin
These are the kids I baby sit And the neighbor’s Doberman is loose. I’m chatting on the phone And raiding liquor cabinets for Grey Goose.
Three fat kids, Skipping down the street With the sound of sandals flapping Slapping on their rubber feet
I’m in the suburbs in the summer Getting paid to make things “funner” When they just want the ice cream And I want their daddy’s hummer.
Went running towards the tinkle Of the ice cream truck of white, Teasing them it soon is leaving Round the corner, out of sight.
One fat kid skipping down the street With the sound of sandals flapping Slapping on those rubber feet.
We’re watching this on the T.V. passing bowls, snacking on tots. Not much else to do in such a state But torture games with smelly socks.
The child was hit by a bus, The bus was hit by a child. We change views passing thoughts And see where lines are filed.
Two fat kids Skipping down the street With the sound of sandals flapping Slapping on their rubber feet.
Throw the cards up in the air And see if we can loose One of three fat kids skipping Which one will you choose?
Sometimes we sit staring blankly at the wall, waiting for hours. (Sometimes not aware that we’re waiting.)
We sit when we’re tired, We sit when we’re afraid, We sit well behaved in class. We sit for hours in traffic, on the phone, paying bills—
We sit when we eat, We sit when we shit, we sit at the computer, at the desk, at the concert at the choir—
wishing we were sitting somewhere else… And sometimes we sit together when we’re tired of sitting alone. And when we do, sit in front of the TV and argue.
Waiting
Rigel Patterson
A Strange Resemblance (Bathers by a River by Henri Matisse) Rigel Patterson
Out here the women are not given faces but one does not need to see their faces to sense the shame. It is as if they are pasted to a canvas— Embedded. Scraps of nails attach metamorphic tilts of concrete blocks resting on knees and scabs of metal connecting cinder to hip… Oval rings sit on bodies where one expects to find lips…
It’s amazing how much they speak without lips. Or faces. The angle at which peach is scraped over ash suggests an utter inability to experience the feeling that bathing in a river might elicit.
I am tired of kissing the broadness of mountain tops. I am tired of kissing sweet smelling dirt. I am tired of kissing the unending sigh of dry earth. I am tired of kissing the swell and crest of being alone with someone else. We keep talking in primary colors. We talk in crushed chalk on sidewalks. We talk in horse hooves and inkwells. I feel like there is a real communication issue here. My lips keep touching sand. I remember Nicole she was almost a cat she would sigh and smile and rope her waist and space with red ribbon and say “you can’t come in here until I’m ready” and when she was finally ready my head was full of dirty water and yarn and feathers from the banks of the Willamette. I was that moment in high school where you are peeing outside of the party and you are looking at the stars being blinded and bombarded with wave after wave of universal wonder and feeling so gloriously inconsequential and then you go inside and throw up or break a lamp or something. Her armpits smelled like curry. I liked her.
Tired of Kissing Michael Rae
I remember Sarah. That was really weird. I remember how she would act so cute with her sister who was pretty much a baby songbird with a bubblegum heart. They would run on rainbow candy and sing and sigh in sugar whispers and probably dreamt of unicorn congress or fairy parliament or something. I liked this. I agreed to go to Prom with her. I was that guy who is back from college and is at prom with the unicorn girl. I didn’t like that so much but she was such a good dancer! I recall a parking lot near a church late at night in her father’s car. I was honest! I told her that light bleeds into my veins and that I am stained glass and that my points of reference all dissolve around me into the grainy glitter of being. This was fine with her! She sent me an email saying that her and her sister hope I find Dinosaur bones at college and to let them know if I do. This was very cute. I have not responded. I remember this one girl whose name I can’t say because this happened a few weeks ago and she might potentially read this. Suffice it to say that we are from same muddy hill and that when we sing it blends our blood into the mud and there was something very primordial about the way our bodies talked to each other. She has walnuts in her eyes and a boyfriend and no longer speaks to me. I remember this one other girl who has a forest of Christmas ornaments hanging above her bed. She has a whale that lives in her pocket and keeps her safe. She makes me drift into light streaks. Sometimes we whisper and nibble on the things we did and didn’t do. I feel good about her! And Megan was a very shy lion. And Rosie had a tree streaked lisp. She had some serious body odor. I really liked this. Oh and Kirsten was a beautiful broken bunny and Lindsay thought it was a big deal that she was twenty four and I was nineteen. I am tired of kissing the dirty love of stuffed animals.
I am tired of kissing the air in my bedroom. I renounce pornography: I want to breathe warmth into down comforters as mountaintops ice and become crystal. I want to find the comfortable collision of morning, dogs, and coffee. I want to feel candle light and taste hot spiced cider when I close my eyes. I want to sleep deeply.
Born in a bathtub in Saginaw, Michigan and No God but the Sun Michael Rae
Born in a bathtub in Saginaw Michigan, the son of the sun and a Saginaw fisherman, I am in love with the girl on the hill. Her father and mother all suture their secrets and put all their sighs into sea shells and eggs. They own the whole city of Saginaw, Michigan and I’m the poor son of a Saginaw fisherman. I am the middle class ghost of a mother and father who’s searching for ghosts on the Oregon coast with the sky and land smearing salt, shaking hands, and spraying my face with the place where I’ll die I would swear that I’ve died in the sand and the tide. And the water would swallow the sound of my voice and my words would float through all its endless expanse To the shipwrecked and hopeless the brokenness voice To the listless expanse in the brokenness voice The towering nothing in brokenness voice And the bubbles would bubble and pop and my voice distorted and desperate from pressure and darkness, in light as I drowned comes the sun and the sound and it asks of them:
Pertinent questions: Q: Would the wind come, if willed, and what would we learn by the withering whispers, the strands of the sounds in the sand? Q: Can I quiet my heartbeat and cover the thing in its thingness and thumping with sea muck and kelp and with water and mud and with water and water the water and sand in the sound of its voice? Q: Am I making an argument against alliteration? Is this irritating? Q: How can I understand this log in the sand without understanding the wind and the water? The sun? Q: Time isn’t a line is it? A: There is no log without the sun. There is no heart without the sun. There is no skeleton without the sun. There is no skeletor without the sun, no he man without the sun. There is no he she without the sun. No hermaphrodite no erudite intellectual transvestite. There is no marriage without the sun. There is no mirage without the sun. There is no Mirah without the sun. There is no Mariah Carey without the sun. There is no Maine and no Michigan and no Saginaw Fisherman, No ocean no life and no death and no no and no yes and no yes and no yes. There is no black hole Paris Hilton Jack in the Box cholera lion fang. There is no rattlesnake scream. There is no dolphin hacked beach blood. There is no Christmas without the sun. There is no Christmas even with the sun. We can’t understand Snoop Dogg and the bubonic plague without first understanding the sun. We can’t understand the Grand Canyon and period blood without the sun. We can’t understand German chocolate cake and the smell of semen and Tulsa, Oklahoma without the sun.
i love you, lovely, for your loveliness so you’re the muse for this address:
We can’t understand our fickle wooden hearts and cannonballs and George Bush’s first cancerous machine dream without the sun. Time isn’t a line. There is no God but the Sun. There is no infinite sadness of no one showing up to Little Timmy’s cupcake birthday party without the sun. It was dinosaur themed. He cried and his mother, embarrassed, held him. She didn’t exist without the sun. She wasn’t a dental hygienist without the sun. She didn’t secretly pray that her husband would choke on his bloody pork chops every supper without the sun. We didn’t kiss with out the sun. We never woke up together without the sun. We never dreamt of our endless color dream or ate apples. We never undid the ocean sound and raised the sea gulls without the sun. There was no haunted house without the sun. Everything was safe and obliterated and wholly nothing. Nothing was consumed by nothing without the sun. We never woke up together or dreamt our color dreams or ate apples without the sun. Time is not a line and there is no God but the Sun.
i spotted you like a hawk from far away swooping fast to catch its prey between its talons and i’ll never let go, for we’ve got hearts like artichokesin the middle, soft and tender, the most delicious part of dinner.
the hawk already caught it, killed it, and compared it to an artichoke,
so tell me, lovely-do i taste as good to you? if presented on a silver platter, would you eat me, too?
if i don’t eat it, it’ll go to waste and i hate to waste
i’ve never been too carnivorous but our love is a shimmering fish, so like a half-certain vegetarian, i said “fuck it” and just dug in
Fish and Artichokes:A Terrible Love Poem For a wonderful lover ely kahn
Where ely Do kahn Our Lives Cross? i’m not looking for anyone, i’m down on love. i’ve taken a vow of chastity i’m so glad you came into my life. i wonder how this happened you’re struggling with the idea of “us” you just want someone, why me? you are wonderful, you are beautiful i’m afraid of what i want what do you want i want to be closer i want to be stronger i want to be together, alone i want you to know... i love you, so much i love you, too. we should tell eachother that more often.