[ In response to A. Wong, ‘Do you love him?’ ]
not Love but Magnetism.
in those green-gold Eyes the Eyes
Rimmed with Gold
and flooding into Green.
not Love but … ?escapism?
like a garden hose Points
her Blessed head to the sun.
as Rainbow erupts
the onset of Rainbow in foreign Country
G_d’s reminder NOT FLOOD AGAIN NOT
FLOOD AGAIN NOT FLOOD AGAIN
G_d floods again, is a flood
in the pants, in the head, in the craft organs,
then who do we blame?
As a child I over the altar
Prayed for the souls of dead animals.
Why? Send me to heaven.
Not through the body of a man,
But through the body of a Woman.
But through my body.
Can you do it?
magnetism of a flood
indignance of a ritual
heart tempo hullabulloo
in a fit of temporal reasoning
we → die
beware of crushing regret
in the form of a hooded past
And he steps off the bus. Such a safe biker. Hair
so long you could laugh. And laugher, lighter.
Scratches me idly. Wants a kiss by the way he’s tilted,
but I never willed it said that way. Never grinning
but gropes his way into a smile. ’Sometimes.’
Guides me by the hand the shoulder. Says,
‘It’s always too bad.’ What? When two people can’t
get any closer. Lonely’s nose. Curls up doggie in the wide
palm of my body &curled like a lotus stem, I fall asleep.
Wakes up, beer cans on the wall are smooshed or ‘Maybe
glued, that would be the kind of thing Chad would do.’
Points out a doodle. Laughs. Climbs down the ladder.
No more laughs ‘til Monday.
I buy a copy of Samuel Beckett’s English Poetry at Trident. He’s a good writer, more like a repressed musician. I like it, I’m the same.
The coffee’s good, the coffee’s strange, the lady–Tierra?–behind the counter is happy I know the word ‘ontology.’ Don’t be happy, Tierra. I mean, be happy. But just–just not about that.
I chew on porcelain. I grope my way home. I’m home. Suddenly. Don’t ask me. How. I miss you all. Eric and your Tibet. You’re not Tibet, you are Tibet. Who’s Tibet? The shop jingles HELLO GOODBYE. End home.
On the back of a sunset cruises a million rosters. You’re the weather now, you’re like the weather. Don’t blink. I’ll make love to you. Brutal tonight. Father, it’s brutal tonight. The weather? The weather.
it’s a major c.
it’s a teeny tiny cake.
it’s your friend’s delight.
it’s that time he ripped his fingers off rock climbing, and laughed in advance.
it’s called ‘laughing in advance.’
From Volume 1
Selected by Isabelle Zhu, Poetry Editor
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