Sunday, March 19, 2006

FOUR POEMS by Scott Glassman

requisite life

i am opened by dialogue, butcher's knife. bestsellers. cold proof that i
have no interior to extend around myself. there's a sprig, however.
weakened. pinning us to solitudes, the soft soliloquys. of ebb. of
course. rescinded invitations. across the matted ballroom. earth's

antelope bees curtail
diving elliptically
from garamond heights

i'm joking. in jails. integers jammed. into j-

hammer the notes (home) contiguity is less essential when the
double-piped. concatenation. of nailed-up mezzuzah we kiss. (askew)
menus of chai. as each stands for. hot-keys. & shortcuts. the peeled
egg. unicorns of inkblot: do not enter. stop. one way. U-turn. keep

vinegar as "never again". neutralizing. their (other) Cage harmonies.
gold-leafed plaques searing the tree into minds of who. in their own
minds. who in deed comes off as. right minds. think of lasting that
long, won't it be. wiped off in crop-circle. dead of light

sitting will be the conclusion of a life. sitting will beget. sitting. sitting.
is sitting. sittting and sitting and sitting. Sunday to Sunday to Sunday.
to Sunday. we cannot start from the condemned position twice. it's all
right there in the appendix. clotted with white mums

had it

what do you want out of people. what can they give you. that you

can't go out. and distill. on your own. a burr tree that explodes three
months before they usher in your lineage. first-place ribbons
(somebody's ashes) didactic proms (april may june. they line up,
same as last year). i want (not) to. understand. (not) even that badly,
in tasteless grain / proof. photomosaic. an English of all consonants,
even the inappropriate ones. doubled over, cramping. finales

i did not visit Avril 50 today, the most beautiful journals were the
words i read moving backwards / forward on the Hill Field walk (what
used to be). was never there as i recall. the violent femmes played.
new femmes & sayings of the dead. this is not the book i would have
chosen to open. i can't shove the pink cyclamens out of sight. crop of
secrets. they seem to need. a center. all my bones removed, adios.
directing traffic. in fact, i leave before the woman can say what the
woman always says to someone. she will barely remember. when the
time comes. for her to sleep. in that anemic. window

some of the poems he writes. (not the woman— yes, but she is there).
who am i without. are so stunning. i wish i could have been there. i am
embarrassed but. it's possible we all do things. pretending that we
were. if only to launch film embers up spiraling. into the
unsuppressed. thunder of. would they reluctantly take back snow.
deposits itself over Vermont (welcome there). & Boothbay harbor. &
dusting the clean Toronto streets. you could lick the crystals of your
first taste. off of. tongue, lemming-like. & next . . . the life, what is it.
that revolved around. speculating on death. ah, but there's nothing
they can catch up to (latch) onto. dispassionately. after-Ritz. he did a
fantastic job, he did

i don't want you to come into the room yet. cause a breach. on my
best days, we're talking. a rupture as wide. i couldn't. there are more
of them now, who do we thank? or ask, beg practically. to seal it. i'd go
down. i would. promising nothing more than i could promise you. i
began by yelling. am confused, leaving that way. what in god's name
did. i try at. you were. would be. always good at helping me deduce
my fears, leading to. i hope tonight. too surface-prone— he's not
carving. again is he. making the cannibalistic seem somewhat.
(ornate), a kabbalah carving. i don't think i could stay neutral. not
anymore. with all this supposing. where has it gotten us. more precise
than. part-morning. part-you

if it suits you

Take my arms out. measure them with the most sand-flecked satin

string you can procure. visit any five and dime. changing weekly into
Restoration Hardware no one said. Take a deep breath and come to
this world each morning alive with a song or the ghost of one.
Whoever did not consent to. & with this, as though they were my
brother's. aligned i persisted. blood persists. his joints (join)

the amazing thing about morning is the way the sun breaks through
blinds, finds crevices and closets to shed its 118th headache in. then
at the moment you open your eyes, opening doors to the expected,
putting yourself away. you can feasibly go to the market with nothing
but fire engines and mangos in your stomach from the night before.
stars had their pathetic appetites. Held them away from you for fear
that you would catch. the posterior of. dream’s

virus going around (yesterday’s panic). That you would say what
came to mind without regard for what you had been. told to do or not
do as a child. It’s all there in chapter 10 midway through Prague and
Edinburgh. the revelation that he’s only 14, or a year older, was it?

i hear the birds, pigeons or black birds, crows no, they would only
have occured. antifreeze streams in New Hope— beating their wings
like gavels behind dryer vents, breeding, rejoicing (that's how they
sing) in March’s timpani chill. (will let up, won't it). right down to the
automatic snow that amounts to a pile eight inches below your
cervix— faux crest— assuming it’s (mine, it’s mine). mine

all the thoughts in my head at the moment

depraved (-ived) psycho bumb-grotto. goulash & carrots (peeled).

winterhostile. i am fortunate to be breathing. i am fortunate to be
breathing. used glass-pronged teeth. nail- bitten-to-a-nub. dribs /
drabs. good to see you again. good to see. good good good.
personality of a clown fish. it rains minnows. thank manna for the
handout. sure good to see you at the party. later, friend. a toast with
kahlua and cuervo. your shoelaces are shortlaces. untied and ready
for the bridge

Scott Glassman lives in Palmyra, NJ and works for a medical testing company. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in The Iowa Review, CutBank, Epicenter, Cranky, South Carolina Review, Sentence, The Argotist, and others. He has a poetry