Tuesday, February 28, 2006

TWO POEMS by Ana Bozicevic-Bowling


Mysteries
(variations on the word "still")


I.
Of winter

Abrupt skin of snow
deceptively warm
on two toilet bowls
orphaned, by the trash bins—

Keep still.
This is the season of porcelain.

O vertical voice.

Where do you speak from?


II. Of water

Father
is out in the yard. He shaves
at the bucket. Something still
quieter takes place
than white hands
wavering
in the flat O of water—

on his fingers, he counts
how much he has;
botches the count, then
counts again.

Overturns the bucket.

III.
Of breadth

You with a childhood
remember
being mute in many rooms.

In some, silences
were complicit. Tired, almost.

Some couches and chairs
stood out
a fingernail-width
from the wall,

and the split of darkness at their back

drew your eye in, a
negative treasure. You'd turn,
airless, admonished.

Whatever the gaps
opened to fit, you did
not have it
to give, not yet.

Still, you
understood, asked
that same thing of mother—

her eyes when you did

were a wider make of silence.


At Night the Objects Move In
(Paula speaks)

As sudden as when objects
entered my blood again,
you enter, begin to furnish me.

You and they
arrange yourselves silently
in the blood, like hens on white perches.

Soon you'll start to speak
the wooden language.

(I overhear: a stove-idea
asks
the last memory of your voice
how it was to be cold.)

Then you begin a slow unpacking, pull
the tail end of childhood
out of a stiff pale-leather bag.

Your father
is no larger
than this bowl of pomegranates



Ana Bozicevic-Bowling lives in Brooklyn (New York) & has a chapbook, Morning News, forthcoming shortly from Kitchen Press. At times she translates & often edits RealPoetik. She also runs a blog

Friday, February 24, 2006

THREE POEMS by Sara Vogt

#1
It seemed we all felt the same way. We all absolutely needed to get out, but oddly enough ,we had done absolutely nothing in our actions that reflected this feeling. We had stayed. For years, in groups that never change. And it can be compared to holding a saturated vomit rag to our mouths. It was warm, but we didn’t like the taste. We were all startled, and it seemed we would stay here forever. Although, there was that one exception to all of this. It was that girl who had those maps falling out of her pockets.


This girl had new eyes, you could just tell. It was never showy, just a general understanding of the way stuff worked. She had pictures and plans and it looked like she could breathe new air in constantly.


On her way up and down the world, she’d meet us in bus stops and airports. And she’d sit us down and tell us how purple the sky could really get under a sun falling. She’d describe the feeling of standing under a tall building, and the way cities lit up made her feel like she could do anything. And we listened and wrote everything she said down. We memorized and studied and it was almost like we were alive too.

Although her trips home were frequent at first, they lessened with time. And I had always expected this. Because it’s just what happens. The other kids gave up completely. They threw away the copies of the pictures and with them, the plans and the feelings of ever getting anything bigger. But I was addicted.

What turned out to be her last visit home, was just her and I in an isolated bus terminal. And I realized then if I could never get it together to take the first big breath it was just going to be this house and these, more or less these twelve streets I knew, and I’d never see anything else for myself. I knew what I needed but wasn’t sure if I could get it. I told her that these blankets stapled in my cheeks were so heavy. I said I wasn’t even positive how they had gotten there in the first place. She said she had no idea what I was talking about, and after some well-mannered conversation, got back onto her bus and gave me a wave through the window as she pulled away. I realized then, you control your own blankets. You have to unstaple yourself.


#2
Some nights you remind me of one of those fighting fish, glued onto a piece of aluminum foil. Others, you live inside walls with your hands glued to stovetops. Your melted skin, a puddle, getting into the gas jets. Your hands look so pretty they way they’re all lit up like that. It’s like you’re almost touching all the spaces between the structures that none can ever get to. You’re halfway in and out of everything. And I just want to hang from your elbows. I want to make you see what this looks like from outside windows.


It’s almost like there’s going to be this night. And it’s coming. You’re going to get hit at the exact angle, and you’re going to fracture all over. The size of your surface area is going to scare everyone away.

Standing over, or behind of, an open window I can picture the way we look on blocks and avenues. The way the buildings make your face show up. I’m melting candles in tin cups over open gas jets. The matchbook is almost through, and I think I am beginning to understand the feelings of putting this whole city right next to your liver. You want to touch and swallow everything.

The wax is liquid now. Before it hardens, I’ll use these feathers I’ve collected. They look nice between your shoulder blades.

The way the skyline looks in your rib cage.

I want to hold your hand while you open up the window, but you tell me, The physics of the matter just won’t have it. And then we bite our lips because it’s a long way down, and somehow its an even longer way up. So lately, you’re trying again, but I’m saying no. I’m saying, we just weren’t built with this ability.

But, maybe if we turn the table upside down, and sit on the underside, we can think less like we have wires behind our eyes. Maybe when the sun goes down, I’ll provide the prospect of another attempt. I understand the way you need this.


#3
It had always been harder to make coffee with gloves on,


but I did it yesterday (only to be able to say I did).


And while pouring the milk into my mug

I took notice of the expiration date

and observed it matched another date,


I thought of you in that moment

And the way your birthday always made me feel

Like half finished experiments saved in tubes,


And how

You looked from behind candles burning.

I wonder whose kitchen you’ll be making wishes from.

I wonder where all the smoke will trail off to, upon blowing the light away;

And how you will look on a street corner in the cold that very same night.

Do you

Still wear that coat?

I am still in these

flypaper gloves.


Sara Vogt is nineteen years old. She is currently a student and has a piece in MiPO

Tuesday, February 21, 2006

FOUR POEMS by Jordan Stempleman


Pans for the Square

and know

somebody is aware of the usual mistakes


could all the forgetting then crown

true and tired


there crawling through the door

as the growth from boundaries


the wisp

from where the cutting pictures


caught the alleged risks

of calling this the darling orange


rather than the darling blue

from the usual source of the final image


Stay Right Here

Doesn’t instance go to great heights
to insist it’s become insistence? But the bar
just happened to be here, while some affection
was there below it, with the talk of fortunate things.

The stalk from proportion reports,
it started from one or what was left from one.
It was the pleasure from strangers
that allowed for the comparisons to lean

away from each other, as if they wanted nothing
but to go on being touched.


Stains

So this spot or dropped assembly is also a member
of the emerging go around. It marks things differently
since it came without knowing its closeness
will somehow cling to its impression. Singly
but to stay defining the redoubtable keepsake
attached to an easy chair or other hilarious things.
The good goes dull with responses. It’s history
caught in the musical stupor of refused sound,
talking to the music rather than skating to the music.
All this in public, still crouched for inspection, attending
to these limits that never rest when noticed long.


Greasy Spoon

Since to mean the watched insurance of the warm morning
expects the pressure to return. There was rarely more than a light
afterward, redistributed, for as long as the bent account
to watch it spread, moves on and shifts the sliding designs
of wanting it to linger. The guest came to us for something,
even as we agreed that the muck wasn’t muck, but the frontier
from coming into production—by the way this was left
here, well worth to take on its close. As to take on
the vacations that hinge revelry to the break of traveling
on a little longer, leavening the glance of a long return.



Jordan Stempleman's poetry has appeared in magazines as New American Writing, Moria, Shampoo, Softblow, MiPoesias, and Milk Magazine. His first book, Their Fields is now available through Moria e-books. Currently, he lives in Mill Valley, California with his wife and daughter where he works as a tobacconist. His daily writing can be found at Growing Nation

Saturday, February 18, 2006

FOUR POEMS by William Allegrezza


1.
to begin in destruction and
end in an aesthetic

we want freedom less than we think

as though in speaking
to weave a clear future

when i planned to move
no one told me about the
violent storms

everywhere dust collects.




2.
subtle tricks turning over valleys

utterances floating with no true hold

shades weaving battle tales

if i would i would if i

250 opaque boxes

train visions blurred

diaries on the styx

the spoils of fortuna

whispers in the conspiratorial night

take the axe and find your own chaos.



3.
reacting to letters tossed
with alphabets among
rocks washed by lake
water

movement

“i wait for the stars to appear”

while
plants grow over us
covering our brief years
with winter or spring

all things tend towards the core
given time

“i am crazed with light.”


4.
issue three cards to the unmotivated

our goal is the enlargement of the company

this account has been discontinued

we are notifying you for your security

you can trust our oversight mechanisms

our quality is the industry standard

do not trust yourself to be motivated.


William Allegrezza has published poetry, reviews, and articles in many countries, both online and in print. He is the editor of
moria and of Cracked Slab Books. He hosts a blog.

Wednesday, February 15, 2006

from THE DICTIONARY OF RESCUED IDEAS (a work in progress) by MTC CRONIN


ABOUT: This.


ACCURACY: Many examples exist, among them: calling a statue of the Buddha, a Buddhist; when you don’t miss; when your prey is drawn to you. Advice when dealing this word: resort to contrast to increase accuracy, eg, in terms of ‘wholeness’, dark is more accurate than light and love is more accurate than hate; in terms of ‘fragmentation’, the opposites are the cases. If desiring to decrease accuracy, desire is enough. Tantamount, then, to ‘enough is enough’.


ADVERTISING: By email: ‘Margie Cronin, Grow Your Penis’. Generally: I didn’t grow my penis: I’m one of the ten percent.


AGAIN AND AGAIN: There’s a lot more to it.


AGE: Behind you are the old, in front of you are the young; you are never either.


ALWAYS: Never true except for the word itself.


AM: Where you always are/were.


AMBITION: Something that would be better described by understanding its opposite (or should that be better understood by describing its opposite?), eg., the voice of silence has no ambition to be heard; the axes have no ambition – though this latter example can be a misleading one because axes can have ambition plural.


ART: Transcription of the bit you possess of what you see (a la Marc Chagall).


AT THE TOP OF THE LIST OF ANYTHING: Sleeping without fear.


ATTRACTIVE: What is able to be destroyed. (Why? Being attracted to the indestructible entails coming to terms with impotence.)


BALANCE: What the moon does.


BEAUTY: The symmetricality of the moment forced to empty itself into the cup of thought.


BEND: A technical term though no less poetic for that.


BLASÉ BEHAVIOUR: My theory for a long time based on nothing.


BODY BUILDERS: People with eel-filled bellies. (At least for the metaphorical.)


BROKEN BIT: The useful part of law.


BYPASS: These days usually triple or quadruple. In times gone, we are consequently without knowledge of what was avoided.


CERTAINTY: In which there is most opportunity and potential for uncertainty.


CHARITY: When we remember. And then forget.


CHILD: Unable to be convinced that we all get old.


COMPARISON: Cul-de-sac of like-un-like. Unlike it is and unlike that isn’t. Highly important territory that is randomly and commonly hijacked by fools for personal gain but only by adding value to the equation.


CONTEMPLATION: Should anything be in a museum? Did anything occur to you?


COVETOUSNOUS: Commendable given the pain.


CREATION: What’s only accomplished with help.


CRITIQUE: What we are all unqualified for.


DADDIES: Aren’t specific (eg, may put a pillow on your bed that isn’t your pillow). Lack of specificity also applies to the daddy itself.


DEATH: Subscription cancelled. (Does not matter who by.)


DECONTEXTUALIZATION: One person doing something and another person doing something else.


DÉJÀ VU: The exposed veins of a nutmeg.


DIFFERENCE: People are different. So is what you learn. [See WISDOM.]


DISINTEREST: Highly respected.


DISTANCE: Where fear and the unknown become scientific. May be casual, great, or covered.


DOES: Takes this example.


DREAM: Being stranded somewhere.


DULLNESS: The inability to be carried away.


ENEMIES: Your truest accomplices.


EDUCATION: Slowly filling the body with pain (so that a full – and useful – bucket can be drawn from the well’s depth and darkness).


EMBARRASSMENT: The world remains the same.


EMPATHY: The ability to make sure both/all are present in each part. (Unfortunately hardwired.)


EVERYTHING: 1. Everything plus nothing; 2. Isn’t real.


EVIDENCE: Both admissible and inadmissible. As if. [See LAW.]


EVOLUTION: The reigning theory of tautology.


EXACTLY: What everything is and what hardly anything is thought to be. The irony is it is recognized in a piecemeal fashion.


EXAMPLES OF PARADOX: When exposed the lie is a lie. When exposed the lie is not a lie.


EXCUSE: Beliefs that are acted upon.


EXTRA: 1. Empty parentheses; 2. What you can only have if you have enough. (However, if what you have is good enough, extra becomes impossible. Some think that enough is enough and is therefore good enough, extra thus always being an impossibility.)


FAIR TRADE: 1.The boy pulling his finger from the dyke; 2. Today for tomorrow (though some believe this shows elements of profit while others see it as blackmail).


FAITH: What is summoned from hiding within humanity and then used as an excuse not to come out. (Assume FEAR.)


FEAR: Getting to safety.


FINISHING: What is still worthwhile.


FLESH-COLOURED: ?


FREEDOM: Knowing the difference between differences. Ie., ‘We are always more free than we feel.’ ‘We feel free but are less so.’


FUTURE: 1. It will come back to you; 2. Involvement with consequences.


GOD: What is defined as God as what remains undefinable. (or 1. What is defined as God; 2. What remains undefinable.)


GOOD IMPRESSION: Putty for holes in the self. (A ‘bad impression’ is not showing your holes – everyone knows you have them – but insisting upon inserting a finger into them in public.)


GOOSEBUMPS: Footprints left by your brain creeping around your body.


GREAT BOOKS: The full story is on every page. Cannot have an index.


HANDPRINTS: Kids or caves.


HAPPINESS: A spontaneous lack of pain. (Always unexpected.) (Without embarrassment.)


HISTORY: What, on a good day, is in charge of the future; on a bad day what gives the past a bad name. It is always wrong. And usually unhelpful, eg., ‘Who were the Egyptians before history?’ This is a problem both of too much specificity and too little.


IDEA: What it’s advisable to have more than one of if you want it to work.


IMPERFECTION: Loving God properly.


JUDGEMENT: A strategy to stop things and take a small rest. Often inflated, indeed boasted, into something much larger, more important and of great significance. The last of these – significance – is not contested here, but the editor would like to point out that exaggerators often choose, and put forward, the wrong reason’s for a judgement’s significance.


JUSTICE: Colloquially, little crumbs the birds didn’t eat. In reality, if all goes well, the growing of the heap.


LAW: What occupies the immensity between tautology and oxymoron (eg., ‘standard of justice’, ‘alienable rights’, ‘appropriate compassion’, ‘alleged fact’, etc). Slang: tautmoron (or jokingly, tortmoron).


LIFE: 1. Mitigating; 2. Unused death.


LIVING: The emotion of passing.


LOGISTICS: Anything that gets in the way of wishes.


LOVE: Pretended collaboration of mortal enemies. Despite such, a union which not thirty ships of barbarians can destroy. (Also known as ‘the heart’sdisease’.)


LUCK: Beating your imagination.


MADNESS: The attempt to define a lack of definition.


MAGIC: Opening your eyes to see it. (Note – where ‘eyes’ is metaphorical.)


MEMORIES: What don’t happen on the day they happen.


MEMORY: Architecture of the present.


MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN: Has her creams. Too poor, she has her pain.


MINUS: Significantly like ‘reverse’ but there is usually something left.


MIRROR: True definition of hanging in (what) space (there is).


MISBORN: Something the moon, bees and anything pushing worry nothing about.


MISTAKE: 1. A lesson you are surprised to have been taught; 2. A mistake that is, itself, a mistake.


MITIGATING FACTORS: Poverty, wealth, stupidity, intelligence, ugliness, beauty, etc.


MOTHERS: People we ask again and again to care again for a new world.


NAME: Tissue through which enters light of the sun (in varying degrees).


NATURE: What extracts itself from interpretation.


NAUGHTINESS: A highly interesting state.


NEGLIGENCE: Not insisting on getting a stronger man to pick you up rather than going on a diet that nearly kills you. [See ROMANTICISM.]


NEVER: Eternity before it starts to do anything. Equal to ‘always’ in mass but not size.


NOOM: With a slight adjustment looking at the moon in a mirror.


NOTHING: Everything’s consolation.


NOTICE: Well there you are.


NOW: What always happens.


ON SECOND THOUGHTS: The first ‘thought’.


OPTION: Restart?


ORIGINAL THOUGHT: One very small one right at the beginning. [Humourous]


OTHER ANIMALS: Humans.


PAIN: The only useful thing.


PANACHE: A hat made of spinach or what you have wearing one.


PARADISE: Living entirely within the dimensions of remorse.


PARENT: Often not wanting them to hurt themselves while often hurting them.


PENIS: Worth only four words, one of which is ‘the’.


POETRY: The part of love you can see.


POETS: Wonderful not careful. Experts on the ordinary.


POSSIBLE DEVOTION: A bird laying an egg in your hand.


POVERTY: A mitigation.


PRIVILEGE: Someone else’s suffering.


PROGRESS: Leaving your dead.


PROOF: What is mistakenly ‘offered’.


PROVOCATION: Come on!


QUESTIONS: What is it called, when you can’t accept that you saved yourself? What are they called, the person you fall in love with in your dreams? Is there someone to keep going? (and not stop)


REAL: Nothing poetic.


REALISM: The literature of repletion.


REALITY: Everything isn’t real.


REALIZATION: Irony; mystery; humour. In essence, an understanding of ignorance without knowing anything extra.


REJECTION: Synonymous with people you don’t meet.


REMORSE: Distinguishing the genuine self. Evidence of remorse is entirely a matter of assertion and therefore always suspect in regards to authenticity.


REVERSE: An idea. It doesn’t really work.


ROMANTICISM: 1. Insisting on getting a stronger man to pick you up rather than going on a diet that nearly kills you. 2. It is the longest day of the year and at dusk the light is still trapped between the trees. You climb a tree. 3. A new scale pattern has developed on the wings of the region’s butterflies and you dream only of the scientist who discovered it.


SACRIFICE: Something you can only do without awareness. To make it more complicated, only what you are prepared to give up for nothing. The trick is therefore in reconciling preparation with ignorance.


SATISFACTION: 1. To be satisfied with nothing, is satisfaction. 2. At least it’s done.


SELF: As I figured from other people.


SLEEP: Stopping consciously wanting.


SOLUTION: Where literature is not literature.


SOON: The smallest possible unit of never. Alternatively, eternity reduced to a minimum.


SOUND: Cures walls of their deafness. (And their hardness.)


SPRINKLE: What is surprisingly still substantively.


SUBSTANTIAL OPINION: No better.


TEARS: How you stop crying.


TERROR: The best person to kill is the person who least deserves it. This person is actually anyone at all but because the ignorant don’t realize this they are able to be terrified.


THOUGHT: 1. An off-hand reconstitution of the last one; 2. Only one that varies.


TIME: Always urgent; sadly the consequence only of observation.


TROUBLE: Facts you can’t rely on.


TRUST: When fear takes a detour.


TRUTH: What happens in the absence of eyewitnesses. (Also explains how things can fit inside things smaller than themselves.)


UNRECOGNIZED: More hidden than the hidden.


USEFUL: A hand with a still-attached arm.


VASE: Not something to hold.


VIRGULE: Where they paused in history.


WANT: Often confused with ‘feel’. Want, however, is a more free-floating enterprise (with enterprise being the operative word).


WAS: A moment of time without duration.


WEALTH: A mitigation.


WHAT CHANGES FOREVER: Yesterday into today. Today into tomorrow.


WISDOM: No difference in things (just less confusion).


WOMAN JUDGE: An adjective.


WOMEN: More only than men. All the same.


WRONG MOMENT: Same as the right moment; vice-versa.


ZOO: Animal larceny.



MTC Cronin’s twelfth book is The Flower, The Thing (UQP, 2006). Her 2001 book, Talking to Neruda’s Questions, has recently appeared in a bilingual Italian/English translation (Braitan, Italy, 2005). A forthcoming collection, Irrigations (of the Human Heart) ~ fictional essays on the poetics of living, art & love will be out with Ravenna Press, USA, in 2006

Sunday, February 12, 2006

TWO POEMS by Josef Kaplan

Place V

Cars could be
as if there
was nothing to

talk about (walk
about too)
what periods of

traffic punctuate
by dropped com-
ma and rote

shift, what roads
talk about and
cross evenly

between your
lines (let's
talk about cars).
Think about it,

never having to
wear your belts
or walk again.


Agenda

Were, in the
front, for-

getting to
was a

problem
with beginning.

Was a kind
of quote,

that is, "time
sensitive,"

which is the
hardest kind

of quote. Now,
for reaching

the mouth's
arm, ourselves:

there is a
wind-

fulness, and
I am reminded.


Josef Kaplan, for the most part, lives and writes in Santa Cruz, California.

Thursday, February 09, 2006

THREE POEMS by Alana Madison

"What are the washing instructions?"

There is no waiting in line at your local gassing.



"The word horde"

Is the word lounge horde


lisp an emerging line workshop for itch riders


I speed and this

I divide quail zed ed

It al roach is

Directed by fissional acting writers the result for you

A stack of manuscript pages of the end of

And receive quality editorial fastback fast


Within three days one on one via nomail
The word lounge is for people fiction
Deadline driven by and positive

It will instill focus miss

The weekly deadline and you miss


The weekly deadline the lounge features plus tips


Techniques and recommendations
Most people on earth are those who felt

Felt on up to the big time




"Super P Hairamacy"

Lip lower than a response
To those bites split pressure
Pleasures the language of
The summer drew outside
Its manner wet from April

Lips lust stasis
The summer inserted too please,
If it could in it's clean
Knickerbockers itself

Between the cook
The bodies
Slipped good of a mouthed
Having an escape
Me outside to eat me

Link juices of the summer
That comes strongly
Strikes to him
A harder digging
I am with which one wedges
Almost there licked in summers

Openings flood thick
with heat of good taste

And outside it spoke with its language


Alana Madison lives with her child and has a very limited web presence. This may change.

Monday, February 06, 2006

THREE POEMS by Donna Kuhn

SLANTED LEGATO

want to drop a slanted little legato in your naive cube?
warn a lima cloud, horse eyelid, keep a wheel, lima bean

on the seacoast with the same practically, the paper sun is acute
green again, escape a flower with a removable cover, falsehoods

warn a lima the job is hot, your face a responsible stewardess
radioactive water guides, the floor is sauve with its illegal marriage

the rodent is green on tv's hot ecstasy faucets
salad of a flower, rodent of lentils

fabric is an acute ray, the sun is fuel, the fuel
stewardess, dark liar of licorice

long candy of falsehoods, waterbug danger
your birds are leaving, depicted by a drawing

horses feel hunched with nothing
the seacoast is along the shore

the dishwasher feels green
the sun is the loyalty

edible ships run rampant with large bough bending the thinking
a tough cloud understands, anorexic tofu soul, acute corduroy

lift-off, take-off, feel the stewardess tree as gentle escape
in your hunched hands, linger, citrus lineman, tranquil sulfur

the tv was dark and lefthanded

the beret sky, wiley headlights of libido to make texas silence
complete the summer, licensed seriousness, silence of the liar

boxer hat tree bending the shore, return your fraction of lifetime
that is your suave illegal terrace, the queen is mild

the moon is a trembling marriage
a person becomes a person when the water trembles

liberty is indecent, the sky was rodent green
daddy is a mineral, i service your hands

captain on a tree, an escape for europe is used
your face is slipping, your face is slipping of thinking

a tough coo profound in texas
whisper like a shore



RAIN IN YOUR HANDBAG

why bother sleeping in your heart
airport bomb, the queen of the christians is across music

the snow is turning and u have it

tricky snow shampoo rent death skin
i always wouldnt cry rain in your handbag

if u like with the burnt pioneer
u lay down winter

tears for a system that grins blue
like your racoon is in kuwait

bulging all over your flashly enemies dreams

bang the meat moon pudding his tv bees love up

your adhesives are plaid
the evening was arrogant and sunk nagasaki
hissing against blue like the page

again the meadow ice regretted sucking vacuumed dexedrine
sink reasons myself, visit jesus in your horse maze

his rent is singing in the eye mirror
the operator of green bones
red winter winter

when youre in your couch
swallow the luck bees
cool words goose her

whatever licks your botulism
in your head tinkerbell ink
like a curtain job abandonment

december is an eye not big
u offer your eye wihtout eyes

green things collapse
give her back her head
your margaret bug is all chewy

hold your fish branches real

i remember u are a favor in a state u grind

a cow is skipping in a loop text
my hands are from bombay
your teeth commute



RECREATIONAL REINDEER

bone scatters your recreational reindeer
prophet winter slips u a burden party
the excellent abortion had a musical argument

undulating powerlessness excreted by bees
9/11 death face, my ear hurts
the sea, the town seems
stupid at that

i ached but i was so free to steal things that ended
i dont like the stars, theres a whole city
while we sleep i have mirrors of bird dreams

get sultry with your words in a meadow
they move your eye because the dulcimer
was ripped like a rose is a winking coat

trees were boat regions, your marriage was
your face is in my desk, he says too bad
your eye is rude

a skeleton is happy like a pretzel
i cant bear sleeping in the half and half
wisconsin is a spider

your co-workers are captains of the thing
bananas are red and sleep in the sideways moon
the moon snows and vacuums your face

i cant wait for your animal dulcimers
u cant move by enthusiasm
they sink the moon i cant bear


Donna Kuhn is an author, poet, dancer, visual and video artist.

Friday, February 03, 2006

HOMEOSTASIS by jeroen nieuwland


homeostasis

why does streetlamp light at night not have its own word;
crayons could be labeled lamppost-yellow.

at the height of its reflection
in an otherwise dark canal,
forget the thought of it.

at a later moment, in the same place
hold still for no particular reason.

Your eyebrows raised against
the night might help you understand.

In the canal
water
streetlamp
light floats;
a giant firefly
flickers, in tune with its original above.
at once brought to life and caught
between two constant ripples,
ceaselessly approaches
the stillness of the light that it extends.



jeroen nieuwland. writing a PhD on social commitment in modern Hindi poetry (in Leiden, Netherlands). editor of poetry magazines and poetry stage Perdu in Amsterdam.