Gas Deity

Nitrous oxide: about as close
as it gets to the gods
without sacrifice, the nonsense of origins
a pretty polly epiphany
polyphony cackling through
the wireless speakers of the mind.

It’s a shame they don’t serve religion at the dentist anymore.
It damages the brain, the wowsers say, and it’s true
that religion should be consumed in moderation,
but what’s a few cells culled from the mortal billions
while they drill.

My last dentist wore loud shirts
and installed bad crowns in mouths.
His talk of motor yachts as he drilled
and filled was a poor craftsman’s
desperate superiority, the man was all enamel,
an anger coated in achievement, my mouth
was his McMansion, his shirt an admission
of life being elsewhere. Probably Hawaii.

My new dentist takes 3d images of my jaw.
There are coloured regions like a rain chart
where the teeth press together:
mountain ranges chowing down
on the unevenness of things,
clenching the inequality of dreams.

Megabytes ride the ether,
a small mill the size of a budget printer
in the next room carves the crown.
We watch it together wearing our smiles.
Who needs gods when you can do this?
He fits it, bakes it, glues it in. So many
almost miracles, so many leaps of reason
to tantalise the understanding.
His assistant gives me the bill.

God is historical and I am on my way to join him
This dentist is younger than me
and in better touch with the future.
He looks like a movie star and I’m already looking back,
to the old days, when we self-administered religion.
We were stupid then, beginnings seemed endless,
the gods were mostly with us, we found them
when we drove to Maccas and sucked
the nitrous out of ten whipped cream bulbs
in the carpark, then tried to order burgers
from the smiling girls inside
without dissolving into laughter.

Posted in 74: NO THEME V | Tagged

Orange–delicious

The oranges I buy
from the grocery
store are okay
if a bit over-priced.

Their skin is
unblemished.
They taste like
an orange,
have an orange’s
large roundness.

If someone asked you
to think of a fruit
that is orange,
one of these would roll
into your head.
Adjective and noun
in one pithy ball.

But they don’t compare
to the oranges
I bought from
the roadside
on my way to the farm
that time.
They were small
and ugly
but so delicious.

I ate them and now
I can’t un-eat them.

The delectable memory
quietly undermining
every piece of fruit
I eat, mocking
my weekly trips
to the store
the careful way
I load my trolley.

Making me wonder
if there is something
sweeter
more right, more real
just out of reach.

Posted in 74: NO THEME V | Tagged

Caitlin Maling Reviews Alison Whittaker

Lemons in the Chicken Wire by Alison Whittaker
Magabala Books, 2015

Gomeroi poet Alison Whittaker’s debut collection Lemons in the Chicken Wire is a necessary addition to contemporary poetry. Deftly handled at both the level of the poem and the book, Whittaker’s work introduces us to the worlds of queer Aboriginal women living on the rural fringe of New South Wales. Continue reading

Posted in BOOK REVIEWS | Tagged ,

Review Short: Dennis Haskell’s Ahead of Us

Ahead of Us by Dennis Haskell
Fremantle Press, 2016

‘Her absence is like the sky, spread over everything,’ wrote C. S. Lewis in a work of prose, published soon after his wife died. Under such conditions poets are apt to explore their grief by way of lyricism, and, while it is uncommon in the Australian context, recent years have seen several international male poets producing collections in just these circumstances. From the United Kingdom, for instance, we have Douglas Dunn’s Elegies and Christopher Reid’s A Scattering, and, from the United States, Donald Hall’s Without. Continue reading

Posted in BOOK REVIEWS | Tagged ,

John Forbes’s ‘Miraculous Fluidity’


Image courtesy of Australian Poetry Library

In a book on comedy, philosopher Alenka Zupančič has inadvertently discovered the key to the correlation of late twentieth century Australian poet John Forbes’s mastery of cultural imitation and his deconstruction of the mechanics of national identity so often queried in his work. Zupančič, infusing Friedrich Nietzsche, Henri Bergson, Gilles Deleuze, and Jacques Lacan, in a consideration of the relations assumed to exist between the vital and the mechanical, develops a theory of the comic as the maker of a ‘miraculous fluidity’. Continue reading

Posted in ESSAYS, SCHOLARLY | Tagged , , , ,

Alice Whitmore on as Translations Editor

We are chuffed to announce that Alice Whitmore will be Cordite Poetry Review‘s Translations Editor from the 1 August 2016 issue.

Alice is a Melbourne-based writer, literary translator and is completing a PhD in translation studies at Monash University. She is a coordinator with the Monash-Warwick Migration, Identity and Translation Network and assistant editor at The AALITRA Review. Her translations of Mexican fiction and poetry have been published by Giramondo, Ox and Pigeon’s Portable Museum, The AALITRA Review, Reinvention, Asymptote and Kodoma Kartonera. Her creative and academic work has been published by Penguin Specials, Voiceworks, The Sydney Review of Books, Dumbo Feather, Mexico City Lit, Egg Poetry, Askew, The Translator and New Voices in Translation Studies.

Alice will play a significant role in keeping the quality of our issues’ translations lofty and diverse, coming from Australia and rest-of-world.

Posted in GUNCOTTON | Tagged ,

Review Short: Gina Mercer’s weaving nests with smoke and stone

weaving nests with smoke and stone by Gina Mercer
Walleah Press, 2015

Gina Mercer’s latest collection, weaving nests with smoke and stone, is a delicate assembly of sights and sounds, visually rich and focused on the natural. Mercer’s repetition of the word ‘fossick’ throughout the collection aptly summarises the poetic processes involved. This is a collection of quick, searching movements. Lyrically deft, musical and richly preoccupied with natural elements, the poems construct meeting points for nature and humanity, ceding more and more with each piece along the way.

Continue reading

Posted in BOOK REVIEWS | Tagged ,

Dominique Hecq Reviews Charles Baudelaire: Selected Poems from Les Fleurs du Mal

Charles Baudelaire: Selected Poems from Les Fleurs du Mal
Translated by Jan Owen
ARC Publications, 2015

Les Murray endorses Jan Owen’s translation of Charles Baudelaire’s Selected Poems from Les Fleurs du Mal (1857) on the book’s back cover: ‘Jan Owen’s Baudelaire brings the French conjuror closer to me than any version I’d ever read.’ Although we could take umbrage to the term ‘conjuror’ being used in relation to Baudelaire, it is, on closer reflection, quite apposite. In fact it may apply to the French poet as well as his Australian translator, for both are magicians in their own way. Given Baudelaire’s impact on Anglophone poetry, poetics, and criticism, he needs no introduction to many readers of Cordite Poetry Review. Continue reading

Posted in BOOK REVIEWS | Tagged , ,

BAY AREA Editorial

Lyn Hejinian
Image courtesy of Graybird Images

Neither distance, the Pacific Ocean, nor the equator can quite explain the fact that poets in the activist San Francisco Bay Area and poets in Australia with corresponding and complementary concerns, both aesthetic and socio-political, are pretty much totally unaware of each other. I would love to blame this on capitalism − on market interests, trade treaties, and copyright law, for example − and almost certainly they do play some role in erecting a barrier between us. But other factors must play a role too. Continue reading

Posted in ESSAYS | Tagged ,

8 Collages by Sofie Ramos


Sofie Ramos | Collage | 2016

In addition to small collage works, some of which are presented here, Sofie Ramos creates colourful and chaotic sculptural painting installations that conflate the art and its space and blur the distinction between the three-dimensional arrangement of objects in a space and the two-dimensional composition of a painting.

Continue reading

Posted in ARTWORKS | Tagged

Wolves

In the last winter on
earth I walk through
the woods giving a
poetry reading.

I give it to wolves gazing out from
behind big clumpy weeds wearing
snow wigs. My own wig was pure
pelf, my poem a cadenced paean to
pelts. Wet pants beneath belt.
When there’s no more winters
where are all these wolves gonna
go? The trees melting into the
forest floor, it’s going to
be that hot, everywhere
in the world. Thank God I hate
skiing and hockey and every other winter activity
except for slipping down a slim path to a hot hot
tub, with you in it.

In my former life
I was a snowflake,
drifting into someone’s coffee to make it
that much shittier
to drink. You can just tell.
Although I’m trying to be sweeter now,

sweet as banana-fried
sundae, swimming in
chocolate lava.

In the life before that one I was a motherfucking
wolf! Six to eight years I medium-raged in a
still pretty chilly wood. When lil
fascists came to suck at my nip I
said nope! I ate plums and drank
plums. I knew what I was, host
to an army of ticks that loved
powdered sugar snow caught in the
clefts
of my fur. A wolf,
I’d tumble around the snow, mouth
all smeared with fruity
mess, giving poetry
readings.

I guess when there’s no more
winter there won’t be any more
falling
into precarious ice and
drowning in the lake. Twelve
months
of lemonade cut with freeze cups,
chewing up chicken wings
ravenous, sweating on the porch,
translating Horace’s beautiful poem
about walking through a field
right where taxes meet vestigial
commons. I mean right where, so close
he can
see it and put it in his poem,
singing a song to himself about how
hot this ass looked, bouncing on top
of his toga. Snapping the cot. Roman
solstice. Gasoline smells coming
off a chariot. Pretty hot. The
poem
only lapses into racist reference twice.
A record for him!

It’s going to be so hot when all
I want to do in this incarnation is
stay cool. Antarctic. Barbecue
on Neptune cool. Eileen Myles cool.
Walk through woods, reading my
poems to the wolves.
They are discerning readers. They love
my new work. I make eye
contact with them through the
reeds. While there are still reeds,
while there are still wolves, I’m
out there walking
in ridiculous
weather, in a
ridiculous get-up
tweeting at the
cubs.

Posted in 73: BAY AREA | Tagged

The Federal District

There’s a part that traces the nation back to brown women getting fucked by white men. And one page has a woman holding a baby. And then another page asks why the Indian men didn’t fuck the white women. And the answer given is that there weren’t any. I was given this book on my birthday. Well actually a few days later because on my actual birthday he didn’t have a gift for me. We walked around the park and I said all the things that the vendors sell look like crap.

Another day we went to the Adidas store in La Condesa, because he wanted to. He asked how much the Mexico jersey was and the guy that worked there told him. And after they lose to Argentina? The guy snapped, The same, before correcting himself, What do you mean lose? I looked at another man in the store and we both started giggling.

Posted in 73: BAY AREA | Tagged

History of Happiness

Just did the math
Too birds eye for me
Living by wits

Miss out what’s said
Travel size heartthrob
Gravity situation

Confess stupid alibis
Unemployed emotions
Keep healthy distance

Showy brushwork
Rakish dogma
Skirmish in the archives

Equanimity overrated
All puffed up
Homer at home

Sorry for what
Clumsy miscues
Put miles in air

Up for the count
Hero worship
Had a way with clouds

Call it a truce
Misery loves misery
Dispatch illusion units

What mood says
Disappearing zeroes
Tiny white flecks

World’s worst blank
Animal episode
Next undercurrent

Words mean everything
Put skids under you
Waiting for emptiness

To fill with thought
Thought with words
Would be has been

Racking up karma
Knock the dents out
For extra oomph

Every element
Something to someone
Smoke in the shade

Naughty or naugahyde
Spasms of youth
Dead for a ducat

Curious gray eyes
Would be my department
Touching another drop

People want to be
Spoken to as a snowflake
Settle down to business

Top dog hot tub party
Got the burg closed up
Author’s compliments

Magpie fragment
Be a nuisance
The long meow

Posted in 73: BAY AREA | Tagged

from Merry Hell

Helen was a girl as her mother healed
a grub who crawls out of an eggshell daughter to
Leda

whose beauty THEY SAY
“also cost her”

what’s the cost of living in a female body ? of bathing in a waters at Eurotas River
?

She could never look at a bird again
especially white ones
& white was all the Greeks
desire

bloodless women & bloody men

feed it all back into the massive hole

in the Aegean volcanic cunt in the sea

they watch Crete swallowed they say
will the Mycenaeans follow

or shall certain Sacrifices be made ? they say, that Cunt is Hel




***

THESTORY OFTROY THESTORYOF TR OY THE STORY OF TROY
stones embedded in the hilts of shields and swords patriliny

embedded in gore baths of flesh globs of blood
yet they were afraid of menstruation

the chains with which conquerors dragged their prisoners behind them were still
made of base metals




***

κυνωπιδοs
cune – o – pee – dos

dog-eyed one

shameless

bitch-face

κυνω > dog-cunt

Hephaestus calls Hera his mom this: dogface

compliance
dogs fawn
do anything for food
no
honor
no
self
res
pect

it is because she is a dog. filthy and terrible. wide-eyed dog.
it must be because she is a dog. filthy and terrible. wide-eyed dog.
it is because she is a dog. filthy and terrible. wide-eyed dog.




***

we launder expensive dirt in Paris in a cauldron all these hands
inside
with the fibers ratcheting perfume off-gas in a tub. b ut th e h a n d s femme
and beyond femme …

wake up with him in my bed. Kryptogeneia says.

Gold and abalone weave up around gleam from my neck when you see with Other eyes
Blacksea saltdarkens aroundme jewels dump weight

is it far from when we marched sli pped on bl ood bulge-eyes headlock cops

the purge
is bitter

impenetrable shell-helmet split horseshoe crab mound of sinew gore and twisted faces
in combat
hidden

(pupusa) tear gas gas gas gas gas gas

kelp water licks my lips salt tower just enough not to die




***

full of the celebrity of owning other bodies

wilder ness star wards back again

moist black earth bough azure psych-light i am the horror and the joy

what won’t pay the RENT to those who own: dudes ma de this stor y BACK WARD a
woman must always

to kill think to rip the balls from her attacker ward of the state monthly check how
to — take Leda, my mom. or Leo, Andre Orea Eleni me

LET ME TELL YOU ALL THE TRUTH OF WHAT HAS HAPPENED TO ME ripped splayed
murdered apart by

Theseus at banks River Eurotas same place as Leda my mom! by feathers awful
i’ve always hated the line A shudder in the loins engenders there fuck Agamemnon
and the wall stake beak at throat
all
blood of my mother is first blood continuous limb-loosening BLOOD rusts the world …
whereupon i became an egg birthed

as a grub on

a

hill like any war you wonder
why you ever came home




***

waxed glad soldiers dropped their battlegear it bit the mesopotamian guantanamo
dust their bodies they lay upon the earth the sun bit them for they were not free

Iris flew to me strong-limbed as with double-conscious purple weave I weave my story
un doing the undo desaparecidas feminicidios of woman nothing is indelible, just remember
THAT while you carry a body on earth they do nothing for my sake or yours this war
this war that is not what it’s about;

when you sit in the cold room the weave unties the hands the hands in the laundry tub.

so i went to the wall where they spit upon the tree of Helen. and

pour forth their lily-livery voices; such upon a wall. you know i didn’t go to Troy or the
wall. never was there a wall. but it was insisted and i stood upon a wall.

Men e la us would have drag Paris Alexander by his dancer throat but Paris was a
dance, sat there as one that had but newly ceased from dance his aristo-outfit high
and far above an arrondissement
on fire.

what does she have in her heart Aphrodite for she also stands around the laundry tub
for Aphrodite is me and wears the raiment that walk a walled Parisian citadel for
during the commune, no one could easily leave Paris

but the shine goddess her sun-flash eyes led the way and i did not talk just now
but did return to the weave

Posted in 73: BAY AREA | Tagged

from Profices

everything is wrecked just fine but how do you know the raven to be no mirror to the leaf

leafy shadow through which you know whatever you know

that nothing happens to

i know it was special for you, world, but I always have to go for I am the lung of the bio

sphere

and nondiscursive truth

yay, so toil, smart women be mean, my brain, refuse all work that makes more for others

my brain, obstinate failure of thought to escape itself, i am, bearable self, begun by the
light

of the sky we are driven against, the sky, under which

each committee covers his feet in my house

each committee comes to cover his feet in my house

Posted in 73: BAY AREA | Tagged

Web

*
hunger a pose of pure intent
poised on hunger
poisoned hanging, a wait
pure hunger purifying
holding the body in tense
poison pose, hunger pure
what do you propose if anything
live in hunger hunting
*
Long is the list of supposed
negative traits: over-ambitious
projects, dexterity, cunning,
ambition, ruthlessness, avarice,
poisonousness.
*
light weaving light waiting
light on light, a silken weight
taste of blood, the sweetest light
* what smell the smell of blood
*
It has always been admired for its intricate filigree structure, and for the fact that it is both a way to gather sensory information and, when needed, a skilful instrument of capture and entanglement. The fact that it is spun out according to semi-abstract designs from the body of the spider, that it can sometimes be recycled and used anew, can serve as a
*
filigree firmament:
look at the lines
parting sky from sky
* she fills the Air
*
but in the same breath might
represent—given the frailty of
the web—the mindless effort of
work, and perhaps its
pointlessness
*
Long is the list of supposed
negative traits: over-ambitious
projects, dexterity, cunning,
ambition, ruthlessness, avarice,
poisonousness.
*
And this Empyreal substance cannot fail,
* she
*
longing light
* ruddy blood the hectic spice
* Major ampullate silk is the rope spiders depend on as they plunge
*
It is one of the toughest materials on earth, able to withstand great stress and absorb immense amounts of energy without rupturing.
And until platinum filaments and improved glass engraving replaced them in the latter part of the twentieth century, major ampullate threads made ideal crosshairs for surveyors’ transits, telescopes, and other optical instruments.
*
aware in air
of air as air
itself is, for air
is, but not how
you think
pendant lattice
turn, turn
*
she fills the Air with a beautiful circuiting
*
Long is the list
*
the soul in our body exists exactly like a spider in his net. She cannot move without vibrating one of the widely strung threads, in the same way as one cannot touch one of the threads without setting the spider in motion
*
over-ambient process,
dis/misclarity, stunning
ambrosial luminance, madness,
ominousness.
* And this Empyreal substance
cannot fail,
*
But the Minds of Mortals are so different and bent on such diverse Journeys that it may at first appear impossible for any common taste and fellowship to exist
*
knowing shapes as smell only
ruddy blood the hectic spice
insects and dream bodies
massy forms in the night
Posted in 73: BAY AREA | Tagged

Repeating

From a two floor skyline
An abandoned house talked to me
It said young man
              You are heroic
              And ten years old
 
Among twenty generations of friends. Friends will free fall away. Free fall up.
Free fall to walls with fifth grade speed to industrial paint behind second-hand fences
 
Young man, use quick knife tones. Be bone and brass. Be last laugh music.
 
You are always leaving. Always one change of clothes from the door. A life in escape.
 
Two floor skyline said you are the guide that dies in the middle
                                                                                                                             The friend more blues than skin
 
The face that cheap hotel schizophrenics can place
With 90 miles per hour right eyes
 
Among dry heat killers
Once children
Three feet high
And roaming
And repeating
And aiming
At cotton mirrors that hang on breathing walls

You are ten years old                           Tagging along                           Yawning at well-lit violence

Whistling tool shop songs 
You will be useful
 
You will be high and alone
Flying on a nephew dragon
From a twenty dollar family
In a sky that calls itself
Just more soil

Around walls That are just walls Except these walls Suggest you make wives Out of highs and currency Here the air is polite to sleepy glass and bullying walls.

Young man, You will admit That sometimes Suicide is power Some people live stronger as ghosts And sometimes the afterlife empties Billions of souls Enter objects Like playground bullets And abandoned door frames. Even broken glass will prove it has voice too. There are 24 hours behind your back

Look over your should right now Can you hear it?

The sound of drums punching themselves out. The sound of piano parts learned in between assassination attempts. Be bone and brass. Be bone enough for two souls. Be invincible again Suffer Red-eyed accents. Professional fingertips. Our gifted victims. Six in the morning beer. The first month of probation. -The shout at the wall See these words that shouldn’t be home

Look behind you again Be invincible again Be Windward Be a sad machete Be her son Be a thief Steal them back Laugh too long Never look away

The afterlife will empty And walk you home
Posted in 73: BAY AREA | Tagged

The Faraway (Les Effarés)

from The Sad Songs of Hell


nights for sleeping, days for sweeping
if you missed the allusion wait
next time it’ll make sense

age & youth are equals out there
everyone celebrates, everyone
tries to hurt the blond lords

but violence is white & well-protected
barely anything is less enforceable
you’ll see it but you’ll be dead

the only cure for pain is discomfort
a lot of fine lawns baked into bread
new songs rising from smog

I don’t know, it’s late, I’m wasted
let’s have blood soup for breakfast
& talk communism some more

the best heirlooms are small,
sharp, aggressive, & almost sickening
wearing one should damage us

that’s what smokers think anyway
happy in their cloud of cologne
& carcinogenic meat

their life is fluff, it’s true
they don’t understand love, or ranting
for them it’s all cataclysms

resent, but exist
in any gap of turned earth it’s clear
this is paradise, people

hang us by ropes of archival roses
roast us alive, just say what you want
& we’ll parse the difference

it’s so much better! I’m winning
by speaking this way, lightly
all the way to the horizon

yes, it’s a form of white jail
but look how subtly language trembles
when it escapes the life it was…


Les Effarés

Noirs dans la neige et dans la brume,
Au grand soupirail qui s’allume,
Leurs culs en rond,

À genoux, cinq petits, – misère ! –
Regardent le boulanger faire
Le lourd pain blond…

Ils voient le fort bras blanc qui tourne
La pâte grise, et qui l’enfourne
Dans un trou clair.

Ils écoutent le bon pain cuire.
Le boulanger au gras sourire
Chante un vieil air.

Ils sont blottis, pas un ne bouge,
Au souffle du soupirail rouge,
Chaud comme un sein.

Et quand pendant que minuit sonne,
Façonné, pétillant et jaune,
On sort le pain,

Quand, sous les poutres enfumées,
Chantent les croûtes parfumées,
Et les grillons,

Quand ce trou chaud souffle la vie ;
Ils ont leur âme si ravie
Sous leurs haillons,

Ils se ressentent si bien vivre,
Les pauvres petits plein de givre,
– Qu’ils sont là, tous,

Collant leur petits museaux roses
Au grillage, chantant des choses,
Entre les trous,

Mais bien bas, – comme une prière…
Repliés vers cette lumière
Du ciel rouvert,

– Si fort, qu’ils crèvent leur culotte,
– Et que leur lange blanc tremblotte
Au vent d’hiver…



Note: the poem above is a “transmutation” of Arthur Rimbaud, which I define as a translation made by
someone lacking nearly all knowledge of the source language. Its primary method is to stare at the
source text and somewhat arbitrarily decide what it possibly/probably means.

Posted in 73: BAY AREA | Tagged

My Teacup

trees are steaming
ever more vital pliant DINK
I can’t see a thing in the sky
I choose George
Stanley over Fear
and Trembling
Tell why you chose
to do this or that
on each occasion
Nothing with hooves
or heels was it?
Excuse me for not thumbing
the abyss, “the goading urgency
of contingent happenings”
how stretchy the membrane
how drunk the ship
breaching the freight
we port with
however it is
I am and come to know
the ruby field of feeling
and isn’t a life suddenly
laid in all its excess
of doubt & dualism
gag in the mouth I forget
to give sense to
relations that animate
to be carried among them
you are not an engineer
yet forms persist
so topple the column
any place there’s a rope there’s
the earth is not enough
I stick my head in it
I lose my coat


This poem previously appeared in poets.org.

Posted in 73: BAY AREA | Tagged

Errant, Thus Signifying (for Martín Ramírez, painter)


The trajectory of the line
must face this,

“to fall is to fall”
also, “a controlled line is admirable”




First he described him as “he doesn’t speak
just mumbles” later he went on
to say “he was mute” “he could not
speak” and eventually
“he never spoke”

living the second half of his life in a search of institutions
he never dated his drawings, although
the doctor did date some of his works



A controlled line is admirable
and contains the human figure




The materials contain the human figure
and the figure in its history contains them all.




errant, thus signifying
in opposition to the authority of endings
you relocate re-title segments
as response to local landscapes




in which sky of the mind that sky dazzles

Posted in 73: BAY AREA | Tagged

Photographing Theater

Underpass drowned
in moonlight
the tunnel
allows the wood
and ghost of
a young girl
her expression
so vanished
carries us

Cosmos in
the joining
of three tiles
an angel
touches
her breasts
sharp stylus
left alone
two ballroom
Ladies
crosshairs
at each
of their hearts

Older Zuni
woman
hair tied
back in a bun
shoulders tight
and high
and never to turn
the hyper blonde
child is twisted
caught
looking back

Family
pictures dead
queens
white flares at
the top
in points on
black
a stark winter
tree
smiling skeletons
light drawn in
at their temples

The spider
was
a loosely
constructed
coral choker
the legs went
on forever
cut in two
hairs one
up and
one down

Lisbon first
night and
early morning
“Is it ok
for you to
play alone
barely
hidden from
the street? It’s
ok we
pull the furniture
outside here
to sit.”

Smear
of dried
flowers school
pictures the
stems on
the roses and
spattered
paper left at
the desk
a mind haunted
by its screen

Two brothers
guard a sleeping
child smaller
his spirit swiped
down mother bent
to kiss him
the second frame
all the same
rushed in
wallpaper
and posters tacked
under wet paint

Crowded underworld
some are in
pure unaggravated
sleep
men fully dressed
head thrown back
seated
hands folded

You could
see her
ripped from
his side
at the cold
bus station
a broad
single slash
in the screen
gone forever

A polish
woman scarf
tied at the
chin steel
eyes carrying
alchemical
pipe pointed
heavier
at one end
her kneeling
sister with basket
beside her
sticks slipping from
the pile legs
fogged at the
knee and torn

A reclining
boy model
an old
Victorian
smears
to move
the lawn down
into the sky

Roses playing
telephone the
bodice wants up
and in along
the bottom
more of a designer
than poet or
painter moviemaker
the strain
behind the image
starts over

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After England

My voice carries further, almost
All the way to the face, I go
But not forth, or I went suspended
Itself, touching the all that isn’t.
After England it could not be kept
Together, hasn’t fallen apart,
Moves like noon shadows
Forced out from the corners
Along a street of expectations.

Not really. After England used-to
Has a present tense, materials
Stay both stolen and mine,
Anthology without exclusions
Where I imagined I saw the time
After England before it arrived.
I went out to meet the thing
Behind things, displeased with all
The available combinations

Living after England is
Then isn’t, where laughter opens
Onto the short-lived feeling
You should know how to
Go whole days doing
(You had everything you needed)
But do not, after England,
Have a fucking clue.
The food no longer safe,

Phrases stop short of,
No news is good, good
Things come, all signs point,
Objects may appear, it has
The ring. Possession is 9/10ths
Firing on all. Ignorance is.
My lips are. The grass is
Always. After England
The feel of not to feel

When sky invisibly divides
To let tomorrow in, where it’s better
To work than not to, far
Better to do neither, in fact
That’s your job now, reaching out
To touch a gloved hand to the face
Of the weather we walked off in
After England muttering England
Has never been enough

After itself, this little one
Where a good price is contradiction,
Getting your Albion
On then off then again.
And there are no events
After England, rhythms
Have taken their place, flowering
Trees set out along the shoulder
Pink and white as ideals

Of how England was or will be,
The wrong words in the right
Order, an imaginary language
With real poems in it.
After England, empire moves
West but knowledge just spins,
Narrowly missing it, or not,
In the unsung songs of the dead
I came to late, after

As in so much further
Behind you’re out in front
Where not knowing is.
And you call it experiment,
The experiment of the sea
Pouring into the city, people
Into squares, forms that can’t
Hold so much, weren’t
Designed with this in mind

Like the mind itself, builded
Here from ancient materials
That couldn’t predict the future
Or even rise to meet it
But maintain a right of way.
Left through this hedge across
Two fields of hops and lavender,
Up the slope of the iron-age fort
Till you drown in a view of the sea.

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Tossing

Eternity goes on for such a long time that nothing can happen to disrupt it
Laughter is encrypted grief, but grief is encrypted laughter, too
Hardly noticed, another apple falls into the yellow grass—an event that changes
the apple, the tree, the orchard, the grass
What’s the first thing that comes to mind when someone says the word
“traveler”: gypsy? nomad? salesman or saleswoman? tourist?
conference-goer? refugee? adventurer? explorer? businessman or
businesswoman? family member proceeding to an occasion, happy or
sad?
Now we’re going to go figure
In the city of music stands a fountain of pitches
Was it not as heroic at a very young age to have died as at a very old age to have
survived
The sun burns every story to a crisp and leaves only a lisp, or lapse, palsy, panic,
or a princess pointing at something across another now
Thrown onto the land, set loose on the ground, put precipitously in place, a
person of modern times will have many modern memories—but not just
those
Why is there no one instead of someone
Watch out, you almost let yourself follow
The sociable book is ample and uninhibited, unashamed of its jolly
idiosyncrasies, unembarrassed by its infuriated sentimentality—o lucky
sociable book off the shelf
Distribute, puzzle, soap a rabbit, link anxieties, follow politics, toe snow
Survival can’t wait

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An Agatha, for Anne Boyer

written by Juliana Spahr but in debt to Cassandra Gillig


It’s a story we all know. She was right fair, noble body and of heart, and was rich of goods. And yet she lived near a provost, a provost of a low lineage, who was lecherous, avaricious, and a miscreant and paynim. His lowness ranged from rape to belittlement, and for to accomplish his evil desires fleshly, and to have riches, did do take her to be presented and brought tofore him, and began to behold her with a lecherous sight for she looked pretty when she smiled and she should smile more so he said. Then began a series of events to get her to consent to his will and to smile more. Some did do put her in a dark prison. Some did do a keg stand in her name. Others did her to be tormented in her breasts and paps, and commanded that her breasts and mammels should be drawn and cut off. Some read Mark Strand RIP to her. Some did do put her back in a dark prison with no food and no medicines. It is said that she went gladly. That she said your words be but wind, your promises be but rain, and your poems be as rivers that pass, and how well that all these things hurtle at the foundement of my courage, yet for that it shall not move. That she said Over felon and cruel tyrant, hast thou no shame to cut off that in a woman which thou didst suck in thy mother, and whereof thou wert nourished? But I have my paps whole in my soul, of which I nourish all my wits. And yet she healed and when the provost realized she was healed he made her, all naked, to be rolled upon burning brands. And it was then that the ground began to tremble from an earthquave and a part of a wall fell down. So the people came running unto the house of the provost, saying, in a great bruit, that the city was in a great peril for the torments and commanded that she should be remised in prison. And then he didn’t listen and so they then sacrificed a goat in the same of Satan and then of a police officer in the name of Anne Boyer. And then great many did do the putting on of a robber outfit, smashing window after window of the provost’s office, hopping in and out, delicately, grabbing what they could. Smoke bombs and roman candles filled the air. There were more kegstands. There was a long line. All for Anne. Others castrating, choosing at random. Some asked for volunteers, some volunteered. Many rigged some shit so they were connected to wires and flew around Peter Pan style, screeching. Many had a loaded gun, safety off, in their hand the entire time. I am supposed to shotgun a beer here and then tase David Buuck while Stephanie Young shaves every man that still has hair with a shitty bic razor, the dull one I used earlier in the day to shave my legs, underarms, the edges of my bush, especially the front lower bottom, next to my cunt hole which I try to keep trim for the same reasons that I try to smile more when I am around men and the provost. I am to do forced bloodletting of all the men here until they pass out and then make them drink the blood to revive. Then I am to say in the same of St Agatha fuck voting, fuck the idea of cameras on cops mattering. And in the name of Anne Boyer, all marriages and all couple forms. Gun control too. And that Ferguson hug photo. And so when Agatha comes out of the prison she will do join her hands, do hold them heavenward, and do say in praying: Stand on the bar, stomp your feet, start clapping / Got a real good feeling something bad about to happen / Drinks keep coming, throw my head back laughing / Wake up in the morning’ don’t know what happened / Whoa… Something bad / Whoa… Something bad. And after that for to prove that she has done prayed for the salvation of the country, there will yet come at the beginning of February, the year after her martyrdom, a great fire, coming from the mountain toward the city to burnt the earth and stones, it will be so fervent.

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