From Otoliths
LOVE
I told them, you can take half the conversation
away from a stranger without them ever knowing
it, take the real side away, and then turn it
into that place, that day that never happened
to you, some intended thought, now yours. There,
you will have it for years, or because of the excitement
that will no doubt accompany this treasure, the night
will come when, not alone to repeat it only to yourself,
perhaps, lying down in a close but uncomfortable
position, faced with a person equally as exciting (in
their own way) as what you've heard, you will tell
them this side of things, so they can stare at you
as you tell it. And afterwards, before falling asleep
near them, they will tell you, I know, I was there.
away from a stranger without them ever knowing
it, take the real side away, and then turn it
into that place, that day that never happened
to you, some intended thought, now yours. There,
you will have it for years, or because of the excitement
that will no doubt accompany this treasure, the night
will come when, not alone to repeat it only to yourself,
perhaps, lying down in a close but uncomfortable
position, faced with a person equally as exciting (in
their own way) as what you've heard, you will tell
them this side of things, so they can stare at you
as you tell it. And afterwards, before falling asleep
near them, they will tell you, I know, I was there.
© Jordan
Stempleman 2007
From Scantily Clad Press
KATE
She was cat-eyed and turtlenecked,
flicking her kretek over a pop-can,
shale bangles jangling like so many
airport tambourines. She was fur-
tongued and blurry-worded, wobbly
on her ankles, top-heavy and moue-mouthed,
powder-nosed and sloppy, bursting from
her barstool like a weasel from a mulberry
bush. Her teeth were rows of ice in a tray;
her poems Rorschach blots on a page.
And the stick-fig-faux-scoliosis pose?
Stage-wise, she had one of those,
and she worked it like any blank-faced waif
in shredded runway clothes. In crowds
she laughed alone. Her soul was lost but
her cry had heart, and when she asked we fell
apart and spotted her the dough. Which she
probably blew on blow. And that’s the last we knew of Kate.
© Brooklyn Copeland 2008
She was cat-eyed and turtlenecked,
flicking her kretek over a pop-can,
shale bangles jangling like so many
airport tambourines. She was fur-
tongued and blurry-worded, wobbly
on her ankles, top-heavy and moue-mouthed,
powder-nosed and sloppy, bursting from
her barstool like a weasel from a mulberry
bush. Her teeth were rows of ice in a tray;
her poems Rorschach blots on a page.
And the stick-fig-faux-scoliosis pose?
Stage-wise, she had one of those,
and she worked it like any blank-faced waif
in shredded runway clothes. In crowds
she laughed alone. Her soul was lost but
her cry had heart, and when she asked we fell
apart and spotted her the dough. Which she
probably blew on blow. And that’s the last we knew of Kate.
© Brooklyn Copeland 2008
Equations: Thesis: Heather Mullen
Heather is easily misinterpreted. She goes to bed with me for complex reasons: because she has pity for this underling artist, who tries so hard to be recognized; because this underling artist gives her treats (a public forum for her own underling art); because she finds him hard to resist after a few drinks; and because, lo and behold, she is genuinely aroused by what happens when these things are investigated. I don’t have many interpretations of Heather; she’s average height, average weight, a face more handsome than beguilingly pretty (sort of a WASP Frida Kahlo, heavy eyebrows, thick lips, dark hair that rides her head in waves). But what happens in bed is so climactic that it takes us beyond our self-serving interpretations. This is a woman who gives; every inch of her is covered in desire, which can (and must) be fulfilled. Heather likes sex more than any other woman I’ve slept with. She screams, bites, moans, and there is such a delicious fluidity to her movements that, despite her near-homeliness, I am moved to do the same thing. Heather is teaching me how rare it is to find a partner who loves these processes, who makes sex a manifestation of spiritual generosity. We’re both almost thirty; I’ve never seen someone who contains both the generosity and the sense of comfort Heather has in the physical act.
..............................................................................................................................
In this favorite game, and when youth is involved, women often hold the cards. Heather has decided that we will have two nights, no more. There is something in me that wants and needs her too much. She is too touched, too moved. It’s safer just to flush the thing. I don’t particularly realize this, as we sit at the Cherry Street Tavern. All I know is an anxious feeling that I’m going on a trip and Heather is giving me a warm goodbye. It is a trip involving my art and my sense is that I’m going to get killed. Heather, she knows privately, is about to kill me too. She puts in her diaphragm and when I come, it is an exquisite lunge into some variant of heaven. Her intake of breath tells me that she is getting my stream. She might even be frightened that the diaphragm is punctured. Amidst all the peace and its benignity is the sense that things are getting out of hand. This is unsanctioned intercourse, out of mutual dependence; Heather feels this too much. So that, when I get back from my ten days in New England (where I have, in fact, been killed), Heather is nowhere to be found. That part of her that took my streams is loathe to take any more, too happy, too at peace. I learn that Heather represents that great portion of humanity that wants to be in pain. Ecstasy is a dead end street; it is too unreliable, too jumpy. Heather now goes for guys that give her the manner and form of the pain she wants, and not too much of the nice stuff.
© Adam Fieled 2011-2023
From P.F.S. Post
MEMOIR
I willed the knife to hit the mark and it did,
sometimes at the point, and stuck. Practice led
to skill, until my eyes were covered with a handker-
chief and my beloved straddled a wheel
for all to see as I threw at her but hit
the space between her legs, beside her head,
beneath her arms. This was it, all
or nothing: my life and hers in a perfect art,
where every night she was reprieved for having
lived, and I was kissed as she was freed,
as part of the act that traveled the country and built
my fame as the man who misses with perfect aim.
© Chard deNiord 2007
I willed the knife to hit the mark and it did,
sometimes at the point, and stuck. Practice led
to skill, until my eyes were covered with a handker-
chief and my beloved straddled a wheel
for all to see as I threw at her but hit
the space between her legs, beside her head,
beneath her arms. This was it, all
or nothing: my life and hers in a perfect art,
where every night she was reprieved for having
lived, and I was kissed as she was freed,
as part of the act that traveled the country and built
my fame as the man who misses with perfect aim.
© Chard deNiord 2007
From Dusie Press
To Bill Allegrezza, after reading In the Weaver's Valley
“I” must climb up
from a whirlpool
swirling down,
but sans belief
in signification.
“I” must say I
w/ out knowing
how or why
this can happen
in language.
“I” must believe
in my own
existence,
droplets stopping
my mouth—
alone, derelict,
“I” must come back,
again, again,
‘til this emptiness
is known, & shown.
© Adam Fieled 2007
“I” must climb up
from a whirlpool
swirling down,
but sans belief
in signification.
“I” must say I
w/ out knowing
how or why
this can happen
in language.
“I” must believe
in my own
existence,
droplets stopping
my mouth—
alone, derelict,
“I” must come back,
again, again,
‘til this emptiness
is known, & shown.
© Adam Fieled 2007
More from X-Peri
LIFE SCRIPT
Born Cuckoo, Technical
I became a Vagabond, Condensed.
She was très Avantgarde,
always the Jester.
Our relationship Allegro.
We vacation in Geneva.
Our life Storybook.
Our son Tristan, of course.
How Poetica.
© Larry Sawyer 2016
Born Cuckoo, Technical
I became a Vagabond, Condensed.
She was très Avantgarde,
always the Jester.
Our relationship Allegro.
We vacation in Geneva.
Our life Storybook.
Our son Tristan, of course.
How Poetica.
© Larry Sawyer 2016
More from P.F.S. Post
AN EVENT
i
above
me
though a beginning
a way through
still we corner direction
with beacons thrown
into night
a goal or a sight
we could wait for an event
with fingers shifting among the goods on a table
but i prefer the multiple act—
the digressive broken word changing in space.
………………………………………………………………………………………….
i
above
me
though a beginning
a way through
still we corner direction
with beacons thrown
into night
a goal or a sight
we could wait for an event
with fingers shifting among the goods on a table
but i prefer the multiple act—
the digressive broken word changing in space.
………………………………………………………………………………………….
four parts falling
that was how i came to see it
what’s happened is
the spirits take hold
and then thrust us out into
the brilliance of a day on its end
as though only thought
can remake the system in
clean lines in frequent
violent reverberations of sound
that remind us of battles
of hinges raised for a moment
in the sun.
A SWITCH
the beam flashes and is
gone
dreams crumble with bickering groups gathered
"she stops before babylon and goes invisible"
i gage my strength
against rock
as wind playing
lone sounds
idle but understanding
immensity is overcoming
light drives but allows
"i am years for you just now"
© William Allegrezza 2007
that was how i came to see it
what’s happened is
the spirits take hold
and then thrust us out into
the brilliance of a day on its end
as though only thought
can remake the system in
clean lines in frequent
violent reverberations of sound
that remind us of battles
of hinges raised for a moment
in the sun.
A SWITCH
the beam flashes and is
gone
dreams crumble with bickering groups gathered
"she stops before babylon and goes invisible"
i gage my strength
against rock
as wind playing
lone sounds
idle but understanding
immensity is overcoming
light drives but allows
"i am years for you just now"
© William Allegrezza 2007
From P.F.S. Post
9/1/07
to Helene
There’s a green dustcover over every place
that seems worth going back to, piled
by thinking, candy-apple tart.
You’ve just begun your trip around
the map of where you are when some
remembered patchwork drops on top of it,
catching every hook with an eye
that glances homeward. Don’t tell us how
you’ve always wanted this to be
your starring role. Cast
off your energetic plush
and wrap one callback finger
around each ornament.
That’s when you’ll really know
how wishes rise like buried
grains of rice or bread-loaf,
juttings into marked-off space,
nodding spring-loaded heads along
to this defeated beat.
© Timothy Yu 2007
to Helene
There’s a green dustcover over every place
that seems worth going back to, piled
by thinking, candy-apple tart.
You’ve just begun your trip around
the map of where you are when some
remembered patchwork drops on top of it,
catching every hook with an eye
that glances homeward. Don’t tell us how
you’ve always wanted this to be
your starring role. Cast
off your energetic plush
and wrap one callback finger
around each ornament.
That’s when you’ll really know
how wishes rise like buried
grains of rice or bread-loaf,
juttings into marked-off space,
nodding spring-loaded heads along
to this defeated beat.
© Timothy Yu 2007
