July 2011
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Mountain Dew Commercial Disguised as a Love Poem by Matthew Olzmann
Here’s what I’ve got, the reasons why our marriage might work: Because you wear pink but write poems about bullets and gravestones. Because you yell at your keys when you lose them, and laugh, loudly, at your own jokes. Because you can hold a pistol, gut a pig. Because you memorize songs, even commercials from thirty years back...
June 2011
21 posts
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The Ships Are Made Ready in Silence
Moored to the same ring: The hour, the darkness and I, Our compasses hooded like falcons. Now the memory of you comes aching in With a wash of broken bits which never left port In which once we planned voyages, They come knocking like hearts asking: What departures on this tide? Breath of land, warm breath, You tighten the cold around the navel, Though all shores but the first have been foreign,...
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Epitaph
“He stole forsythia.
He lived for love.
He never got caught.”
-Jim Moore
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The night the world was going to end →
theburrowingpoems:
The night the world was going to end
when we heard those explosions not far away
and the loudspeakers telling us
about the vast fires on the backwater
consuming undisclosed remnants
and warning us over and over
to stay indoors and make no signals
you stood at the open window
the light of…
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Ebb Tide
Old men, perched on polished benches,
fogging the air with treasured pipes,
clutch glasses froth-filled to the lip;
their muted conversation growls lazily
across the sea of half filled bottles,
drowning syllables in dark beer.
With acknowledged skill the pretty lass
draws the cold draught, hissing, from the cask,
to swirl alluringly in angled glass;
her lilting brogue in soft words
rides...
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the door to your room was the door to mine
I Remember
By the first of August
the invisible beetles began
to snore and the grass was
as tough as hemp and was
no color--no more than
the sand was a color and
we had worn our bare feet
bare since the twentieth
of June and there were times
we forgot to wind up your
alarm clock and some nights
we took our gin warm and neat
from old jelly glasses while
the sun blew out of sight
like a red...
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New Beirut. Sounds warm and summery
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And The Days Are Not Full Enough...
And the days are not full enough Ezra Pound
And the days are not full enough And the nights are not full enough And life slips by like a field mouse Not shaking the grass
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Peanut Butter Eileen Myles
I am always hungry & wanting to have sex. This is a fact. If you get right down to it the new unprocessed peanut butter is no damn good & you should buy it in a jar as always in the largest supermarket you know. And I am an enemy of change, as you know. All the things I embrace as new are in fact old things, re-released: swimming, the sensation of being dirty...
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Changing Genres
I was satisfied with haiku until I met you, jar of octopus, cuckoo’s cry, 5-7-5, but now I want a Russian novel , a 50-page description of you sleeping, another 75 of what you think staring out a window. I don’t care about the plot although I suppose there will have to be one, the usual separation of lovers, turbulent seas, danger of decommission in spite of constant war, time gulps...
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FUCK DOMINOES
“I’ll follow your toenails into any hell that you propose so deeply do they mean your feet so purely is their pink my soul’s
Teach me to polka my walker to hum dementia’s tune and I’ll don diapers with a kinky gleam slurp stewed prunes with oyster joy
O my pretties cantankered into twisty things my lonesome irksome debutantes of death I’ll be the girling dervish of Royal...
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A Book Of Music by Jack Spicer
Coming at an end, the lovers
Are exhausted like two swimmers. Where
Did it end? There is no telling. No love is
Like an ocean with the dizzy procession of the waves' boundaries
From which two can emerge exhausted, nor long goodbye
Like death.
Coming at an end. Rather, I would say, like a length
Of coiled rope
Which does not disguise in the final twists of its...