Avant-Garde Lovesong, Davis Lisk

by Davis Lisk

My hiccough of the ticking onion She is as warmful as the flower-sprouting day Yet hapfully cool as the white-laden year-time When the smallwise flapping thingeys Fly into the low-part for the fourth of the year section And she is looking as the orange floating-up part On the far right map edge Light-thrusting as the Chinese space lanterns Fire-making in the real-big-up Let us go between the tall wood spires Word-swapping what is on our thought-melons My el-shaped joint in hers Forhappening when ticks have done more passing She will grasp my finger-holder As the real pale rain is falling Unfastly down upon the grass on dirt Covered with the big-wood droppings Snap, crackle, pop along the shaven strip in the large twig village

Perchancing she shall lift her mouth-dips As we interchange our foot-positions Merely I and the focus of my heat-seeking feelings Merely she and I My hiccough of the ticking onion

Kicking Bricks

By Kimberly Rhyne

oh kicking bricks, oh kicking bricks oh how I love to kick these bricks I do not like to pick up sticks but I do love to kick some bricks

this rectangle I want to thwump I will not go around this lump I will not flee, I will not jump I want to make this brick go thump

the bricks that all the people tread they may be clay, concrete, or lead they may be grey or brown or red but either way, I’ll kick them dead

oh kicking bricks, oh kicking bricks I don’t know why I kick these bricks I don’t kick rocks or grass or sticks but I do love to kick some bricks