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poetry: results 73–96 of 735
2 October 2009
Vol. 9, No. 3
In hooves, trying to get inside the apple without
breaking the skin, or inside the Orangery at closing,
oh, and in that, a hymn containing the words
taken from the antique store down on 2nd Avenue.
29 September 2009
Vol. 9, No. 3
Read your hand in the mirror:
this is your only chance
to be the victim.
26 September 2009
Vol. 9, No. 3
I never win at the game Hump the Hostess
or Musical Beds. Martha says I don't
have any rhythm or know how to mix
a drink. Last week I sloshed in
rubbing alcohol to see if she could feel
a difference, but she just asked if I went
cheap on the brand.
20 September 2009
Vol. 9, No. 3
of snow dust
on pigeon shit
at the end of another year
17 September 2009
Vol. 9, No. 3
their inevitability, like frost
or pigeon calls in morning air.
there is a turning point
with snow, swooping
11 September 2009
Vol. 9, No. 3
And so again we're left with speculation. Luck, destiny, fortuity.
The mouth makes its sounds, curls ever so slowly, forming
into horror or love, while lightning in the sky, if you're a passenger,
cannot be described, because those moments are always
your last. It's 3 a.m. Monday morning…
8 September 2009
Vol. 9, No. 3
Smoke from the pipe of our lungs, unreaching, shifting molecules
to air and back
to smoke, will leave us, in the midst of this city, quietly to drown
among our past—
suicide gun blasts through walls, our waiting and heart-stopped nerves
then quickening,
then beginning their stretch…
5 September 2009
Vol. 9, No. 3
Because I have waited too long to ask why we deserve this,
it keeps pounding harder than we ever imagined. Awnings
have collapsed over every balcony, cars start floating
gently down the streets, and even rats nestled in the sewers
have already drowned. But still there's no flood, no looting.
2 September 2009
Vol. 9, No. 3
Too late to think about tomorrow, I do it anyway,
and while I'll still be sleeping, your drive across I-95
I always picture, every situation different. First
a man in a car with a siren—flickering and silent—
wearing away its dark black paint. He stops, tells you
to get out.
30 August 2009
Vol. 9, No. 2
Guided by the memory of light.
Don't forget not to speak of
what should stay on the ground
between us. A heron lifts off the limbs,
tucking its feet beneath it
27 August 2009
Vol. 9, No. 2
even the
most meek
puddle where
life worms
its way
into being
winged
24 August 2009
Vol. 9, No. 2
It's warm in the frame, under the lamps.
No one speaks because
keeping warm.
To speak takes it out of the body.
21 August 2009
Vol. 9, No. 2
We placed it on the ground between us.
After it fell again, we rebuilt it.
The wind keeps gusting it into the barbed
fence. Holes are torn roughly, not cleanly
punched. We have to keep this between us…
14 August 2009
Vol. 9, No. 2
Spruce trees smell
wicked at night
we lie in lavender
twilight we think
we are so clever with our pale
bodies and sly-tongued minds
11 August 2009
Vol. 9, No. 2
prose poem
It is evening and the dark climbs through the window, sits down beside us on the couch, demands the remote control. We curl our legs together, socks to socks, my hand pressed on your lower belly. "What if you suddenly stopped breathing," I say, imagining your death, the funeral, the useless black shoes. I smile, bury my nose in your dirty dark hair.
2 August 2009
Vol. 9, No. 2
Poincaré sits in the turning dark
of the stairwell
folded in a thin nightshirt
eating a dry husk of carp, mostly
all huge brass head, eyes
distraught,
with declining bones like a harp.
An influenza is in the suburbs.
30 July 2009
Vol. 9, No. 2
Because we stash words
in our temporal lobes
in pairs—best friend with dog,
dog with cat, catatonia with last Friday, fried
eggs with broken plate—
we see associations before we say them: …
27 July 2009
Vol. 9, No. 2
You couldn't talk to me, you said, meaning
you couldn't hear, which was ok since
I'd lost my voice. That was before I started
singing, pushing the vacuum ahead of me
like a seed spreader, tethered to the stereo
by headphones. You were absent enough for me…
20 July 2009
Vol. 9, No. 2
I hear her grape-sized heart
& she, tiny love, knows not
pumping erratic
milliliters of blood
the unfocused, gray cloud
in the left sliver of her right
iris, a mumbling
15 July 2009
Vol. 9, No. 2
A black hand across the landscape, then thousands
rummaging the corn's winter wreckage
for plunder.
They rise and clap, swarm, recede. Black is one
of only three proper colors…
8 July 2009
Vol. 9, No. 2
The fuckwad has her caged rat-style. He sends babies chute face,
chute face. She chews face, face plowed, baby after baby.
He box checks, he checks box, he slots baby, he plows.
Then cokes. He offers to coke her. She nuzzles
a baby, opens her face.
5 July 2009
Vol. 9, No. 2
The farmer sends you and your children into the woods to puke
up his property. He says, you're wolf meat, now. You're dead
to meat. Hoof it pinkling mama, if you like, but beyond
that forest lies the forest, and beyond that, a tight shut eye
nothings you flat.
2 July 2009
Vol. 9, No. 2
Take note and heed. My drab elastic shackle worried the bone
to dart. Poison tipped present day cervix fasting, preparatory.
Ugly Park looms, and I file its gates. Specific access: trees
denied, fur denied, zing and whoosh denied, all water denied.
Dark denied, particle-free oxygens denied, nutrients denied.
Girls, boys, tom-toms, flowers, spoons, ink, porcelain, fruit,
tone, flint, exploration, and tonic fetal compass denied.
29 June 2009
Vol. 9, No. 2
Now I understand why. Someone turns loose the winds on me
and I'm a fountain of fire, someone tosses me into the sea
and I float in a boat of flames, someone pushes me under
and my lungs implode like hydrogen blimps. Every bronchiole burns…