a = time

 

 

 

   Because I can't dance, the ascendency

   becomes privledged by the magic lake;

   where else to find substantive muskrats

   digging hole after boring hole and singing

   birds and, God knows, what else.

   What else can happen when your looking

   for peace, a quiet front;

   pollen and whispered bushes

   deterministic here.

   Who writes poetry next to

   water anyway?

   Who can fit a hundred

   years into waves or a

   narrative into insect manifolds,

   or place painted toenails

   into cool forms of liquid?

   When energy is performative

   menthol and the bark of

   old trees is pretend

   pianos < I can't play

   and its difficult to discuss.

 

 

   I get it now.

   Im'e bored by experimentation.

   Bored by the burial of ancient seeds

   growing new wood.

   Consonants are a strain,

   febrile as cooling stars,

   a gulls gulag

   for my blackened assonance.

 

  

   What kind of man writes poetry

   anyway:

   An intermediate man;

   an intermetallic man.

Reviews

[Emily B]

poets are like superheroes, i suspect they can fly when we're not looking, leap tall buildings, bend steel

a poet in the phillipines once told me when our words meet metal we can change the world, i think he must be right