Tuesday, April 30, 2013

“Tour,” by John Myers (forthcoming in issue 22)

Peals and green sheep, their muzzles
smelling like perfect acorns
all caught in the gel air like
thirds in Bach. Is it pleasure
that keeps a city together?
I’m reading through pages of
old fortunes, validity
is subjective as our words
for weather. My chaise lounge won’t
fit through our new door, newspapers
will but they’d rather pile against
one another like round faces.
When I saw how awesome your
picture of Bermuda grass
was I knew we were moths,
exclamation-ready, and
that we’d need to come up with
another sign for waiting.
On the street, including bluebirds
my other pleasures defer. Overheard
boys describe new boyfriends to
one another. Adjectives
like to be grounded somehow,
like power lifters. The verb
feels better to me today,
grammar like a mobile made
of it or one made of walking.
A linked set of arms requires
two people and what does collage
require? Two sitting calmly.
Blank means everything. Plural
likenesses, some rain which passes
wherever early afternoon
crosses the meadow. The heightening
effect of travel, its scalene
uncertainty. Again into
verticality I begin
to unearth my show, private
and strong as a spine.
If I were wearing the sky like a bathing suit
this lip like the pink lip of a shell is glossy as.

Saturday, April 27, 2013

“Poem,” by John Myers (forthcoming in issue 22)

I trust the village chin. We are both in bloom
as the dropped pie. This is love

this is perhaps the least still of things.

We watch the loom in the hands of a genius
while I blow canned air at cherries. I take Fridays off.
As one truly who champions herself

walk with me. I’ll bring a pinwheel in case there’s
wind. I’ll be eyeshadow and my country lips and sourness.

Saturday, April 20, 2013

“{marginalia} a limited body of iterations

inner tracks adjacent, a star, this song
asserts animation / agitation / if in sequence

performed kneeling / beside a woman becoming
whole as a patchwork evolves incrementally

over generations, from clay and water
the part a chamber, rib or beam / a hand fallen

and the legs are snakes she has sewn
or reconstructed herself in the image of her

maker / if nameless while the earth spins
whom to call into question / what we assumed

were finite waters / a tornado in restoration
violently exploding a myth known as churn

Thursday, April 18, 2013

“{marginalia} anatomy of an organ,” by Valerie Witte (forthcoming in issue 22)

a fist enclosed in a double-walled sac
depends on gradation / the thickness profile

and varnish, which nourishes as a bridge
prevents shocks of blood / overflowing

could we ever pump it out / in response
to its own contractions a muscle may achieve

oscillation / protect its surrounding vibrations
an encroachment upon the inner layer also

to lengthwise scoop we negotiate between
fluid and seclusion, a lubricated surface

in which to play with good intention and anchor
sliding to preserve a structure made of adjacent

spaces, two superior and two / inferior, attached
to literally heartstrings wound around tuning

pegs held in an arc, each sounded separately
and fit into a tapered hole / a lover

in the receiving chamber, where a tension built
might burst: no / frets to stop dividing

into outer walls / passion and pain, contained

Wednesday, April 10, 2013

from “The Escapist,” by Jennifer Mackenzie (forthcoming in issue 22)

Or perhaps it is you who is painting me as an owl
my head still separated from my child’s body
in secret like a knife stuck under a wife’s pillow

& who shall be intruded upon
by a jasmine picker. The flame she said
is quite beautiful. Moves like breathing

between me & everyone else
such terror at the casual

guttering of any form. In this heat
helicopter gunships hover to keep us cool
You blow on my face, we scrawl warm

alphabet still in rootball. One head reading
political science (“Theories of the future”)
& the other “Life with Picasso”

Then his miserable luck, a he-goat
he called she was taken away
by gypsies & he was left calling

Where’s my little white she-
goat that I love so much?

Tiny orange crayons scatter blazing
from the sky, lit seed-darts star
doubt bright or dark

We will blossom coolly
coolly to author Thieves of the Future

Wednesday, April 3, 2013

from “The Escapist,” by Jennifer Mackenzie (forthcoming in issue 22)

Hitherto this sylph this azimuth
construed a dome sewn

w/ tracers. Clatter above
from carpenters stumbling
on roof beams, rafters. A ship upturned

was ripped & scuttled, filled
w/ stones. Bang Bang! Nikita

Maximalist. Firehosing plaster
from our lips. Spitting in
our pinstriped eyes unsealed

“2 global & searing themes”: How
our laughter resembles monsters’

rough uncut garnet stuckness of
children’s slitthroat scabs unearthed

power. (“Now either you are
a personality (especially
a personality of such magnitude)

or you are not.” (Mayakovsky))
Only 2 faint stars

& the occasional booms. They come
in ones or twos or threes. Then there are

minutes of quiet. Dark blistered blocks
of listeners murmuring on  rooftops
What is the make of gun Mayakovsky

used on himself in lieu of vinegar
& sponge. Autarchic. Father

father in the future, maybe
you want to watch TV forever?