Poemunity — your poem community

I was so happy in the gem room. The sun was president, I was just dug up, all hell had shrunk to a sulphur crystal. Something danced on the point; it must have been me. I had a hundred faces, and one of them served up the ceiling in a perfect slice — like a twelve-year-old saint in some countryside where they only read Revelation. I had some small nugget of sense, for once, I was a mind that understood the light    ... Rain rained in my aquamarine. The world’s knuckles gripped the bedstead. I felt the red dynamiting of me in Missouri, where all outdoors was my candy store, where color sucked at its all-day self and never became less sweet, less new. “I want to put it in my mouth,” said someone, “I almost want to eat it    ...    ” I had dozens of uses, but I was mostly flat beautiful. Visitors just gasped in the matte-black room where I freely fluoresced. They saw me laid on a dictionary to demonstrate my transparency, which was complete; they could read the word everything through me. My name meant blood, meant seawater, meant lemon. The eye in my agate never blinked. I was believed to be formed of frozen moonlight. I was cut so that a star shone back. The purest and wind-clearest hunk of me they carved into a horse. When I was split to the purple and somehow still standing, they called me a cathedral. Yet just to the left of that I spilled all over velvet. The velvet is what did it — I wanted to be smuggled. Wanted to ride past all the alarms, just before that drop of sweat hit the floor. Wanted to end up in god- knows-whose hands, a heist. “Obscene,” said a man behind me, “just in piles like that    ...    obscene.” Then I spilled another carat, laughing. In Missouri you could pluck me straight up off the ground. Gumdrops, gobstoppers, jujubes. I thought: try to suck me down to nothing, and find yourself up against one million years. In piles like that. Just out there. For anyone. Obscene. The legs of the real thing were opening, flash and flash and flash. I said: go ahead and smash the glass. Give me a break-in like a kaleidoscope. Someone will entirely drip with me as soon as I get out of here.

Polyester is raised up on column 4 then joined or depressed on joint 3 on Saturday Albert reduced wigmakers to minuscule wages with his merry song which is glued to aluminum arm 2 then slides into elevated leg post 1.

Attending to verbal constructs makes care long-term, not acute, which is for the best because, though flawed, each one is salvageable or replaceable unlike my flesh. Words can be compared with moments, houses, trees, wires, wires, trees, houses. All stand on their marks. Still, there’s a lot of overlap. I move my eyes to make time. I take their measure and create a duplicate.

makes wind the way it whirls about and blows the neighboring names of other signatories away. The point of it is not the John or Jane Doe it names; the point’s the quill in motion as if still stuck and aquiver in goose skin. The trick to writing well isn’t up the sleeve. It is the sleeve that fluffs up the flourish, that blooms around the stunted stamens of the fingers and distracts us from our grasping for the sun or the uncertain scratching of the stylus.

Bobby Hutcherson in Oakland The mallet strikes but something's off, and so he hits again, curling that lower lip, purses his brow, as if this sign, this minor woe, were speech the vibes might understand, so when he lifts bluish lids as if wakened to the desired tone that rings now, it seems, it sounds, under wraps, a water-ly quaver, through the club crowd's silence, as it floats above us like an aerosol trying to find a new way to escape, passes through the wall's mortared pores to reverb in the cool night air of an unpeopled sidewalk, droning toward tracks where a passing peopled train sucks up and winds his finally found, wowed tone around its wheels, held there by steel heat one hundred miles, until it reaches the sea, where wheels and whistle overreach surging surf the good vibration feels such desire for, and leaves its tedium of the round and round, lofting to a sea that comes and goes but finally simply goes, as one night, this night, the cool vibes' air (struck finally in the changed groove of sax and ecstatic kit) is free, finally free, to go where we won't hear from it again.

for Elizabeth Ryle Immediately cries were heard. These were the loud wailing of infant souls weeping at the very entrance-way; never had they had their share of life’s sweetness for the dark day had stolen them from their mothers’ breasts and plunged them to a death before their time. —Virgil, The Aeneid , Book VI And then the dark fell and ‘there has never’ I said ‘been a poem to an antibiotic: never a word to compare with the odes on the flower of the raw sloe for fever ‘or the devious Africa-seeking tern or the protein treasures of the sea-bed. Depend on it, somewhere a poet is wasting his sweet uncluttered metres on the obvious ‘emblem instead of the real thing. Instead of sulpha we shall have hyssop dipped in the wild blood of the unblemished lamb, so every day the language gets less ‘for the task and we are less with the language.’ I finished speaking and the anger faded and dark fell and the book beside me lay open at the page Aphrodite comforts Sappho in her love’s duress. The poplars shifted their music in the garden, a child startled in a dream, my room was a mess— the usual hardcovers, half-finished cups, clothes piled up on an old chair— and I was listening out but in my head was a loosening and sweetening heaviness, not sleep, but nearly sleep, not dreaming really but as ready to believe and still unfevered, calm and unsurprised when she came and stood beside me and I would have known her anywhere and I would have gone with her anywhere and she came wordlessly and without a word I went with her down down down without so much as ever touching down but always, always with a sense of mulch beneath us, the way of stairs winding down to a river and as we went on the light went on failing and I looked sideways to be certain it was she, misshapen, musical— Sappho—the scholiast’s nightingale and down we went, again down until we came to a sudden rest beside a river in what seemed to be an oppressive suburb of the dawn. My eyes got slowly used to the bad light. At first I saw shadows, only shadows. Then I could make out women and children and, in the way they were, the grace of love. ‘Cholera, typhus, croup, diptheria’ she said, ‘in those days they racketed in every backstreet and alley of old Europe. Behold the children of the plague.’ Then to my horror I could see to each nipple some had clipped a limpet shape— suckling darknesses—while others had their arms weighed down, making terrible pietàs. She took my sleeve and said to me, ‘be careful. Do not define these women by their work: not as washerwomen trussed in dust and sweating, muscling water into linen by the river’s edge ‘nor as court ladies brailled in silk on wool and woven with an ivory unicorn and hung, nor as laundresses tossing cotton, brisking daylight with lavender and gossip. ‘But these are women who went out like you when dusk became a dark sweet with leaves, recovering the day, stooping, picking up teddy bears and rag dolls and tricycles and buckets— ‘love’s archaeology—and they too like you stood boot deep in flowers once in summer or saw winter come in with a single magpie in a caul of haws, a solo harlequin.’ I stood fixed. I could not reach or speak to them. Between us was the melancholy river, the dream water, the narcotic crossing and they had passed over it, its cold persuasions. I whispered, ‘let me be let me at least be their witness,’ but she said ‘what you have seen is beyond speech, beyond song, only not beyond love; ‘remember it, you will remember it’ and I heard her say but she was fading fast as we emerged under the stars of heaven, ‘there are not many of us; you are dear ‘and stand beside me as my own daughter. I have brought you here so you will know forever the silences in which are our beginnings, in which we have an origin like water,’ and the wind shifted and the window clasp opened, banged and I woke up to find the poetry books stacked higgledy piggledy, my skirt spread out where I had laid it— nothing was changed; nothing was more clear but it was wet and the year was late. The rain was grief in arrears; my children slept the last dark out safely and I wept.

For I will consider my Cat Jeoffry. For he is the servant of the Living God duly and daily serving him. For at the first glance of the glory of God in the East he worships in his way. For this is done by wreathing his body seven times round with elegant quickness. For then he leaps up to catch the musk, which is the blessing of God upon his prayer. For he rolls upon prank to work it in. For having done duty and received blessing he begins to consider himself. For this he performs in ten degrees. For first he looks upon his forepaws to see if they are clean. For secondly he kicks up behind to clear away there. For thirdly he works it upon stretch with the forepaws extended. For fourthly he sharpens his paws by wood. For fifthly he washes himself. For sixthly he rolls upon wash. For seventhly he fleas himself, that he may not be interrupted upon the beat. For eighthly he rubs himself against a post. For ninthly he looks up for his instructions. For tenthly he goes in quest of food. For having consider'd God and himself he will consider his neighbour. For if he meets another cat he will kiss her in kindness. For when he takes his prey he plays with it to give it a chance. For one mouse in seven escapes by his dallying. For when his day's work is done his business more properly begins. For he keeps the Lord's watch in the night against the adversary. For he counteracts the powers of darkness by his electrical skin and glaring eyes. For he counteracts the Devil, who is death, by brisking about the life. For in his morning orisons he loves the sun and the sun loves him. For he is of the tribe of Tiger. For the Cherub Cat is a term of the Angel Tiger. For he has the subtlety and hissing of a serpent, which in goodness he suppresses. For he will not do destruction, if he is well-fed, neither will he spit without provocation. For he purrs in thankfulness, when God tells him he's a good Cat. For he is an instrument for the children to learn benevolence upon. For every house is incomplete without him and a blessing is lacking in the spirit. For the Lord commanded Moses concerning the cats at the departure of the Children of Israel from Egypt. For every family had one cat at least in the bag. For the English Cats are the best in Europe. For he is the cleanest in the use of his forepaws of any quadruped. For the dexterity of his defence is an instance of the love of God to him exceedingly. For he is the quickest to his mark of any creature. For he is tenacious of his point. For he is a mixture of gravity and waggery. For he knows that God is his Saviour. For there is nothing sweeter than his peace when at rest. For there is nothing brisker than his life when in motion. For he is of the Lord's poor and so indeed is he called by benevolence perpetually—Poor Jeoffry! poor Jeoffry! the rat has bit thy throat. For I bless the name of the Lord Jesus that Jeoffry is better. For the divine spirit comes about his body to sustain it in complete cat. For his tongue is exceeding pure so that it has in purity what it wants in music. For he is docile and can learn certain things. For he can set up with gravity which is patience upon approbation. For he can fetch and carry, which is patience in employment. For he can jump over a stick which is patience upon proof positive. For he can spraggle upon waggle at the word of command. For he can jump from an eminence into his master's bosom. For he can catch the cork and toss it again. For he is hated by the hypocrite and miser. For the former is afraid of detection. For the latter refuses the charge. For he camels his back to bear the first notion of business. For he is good to think on, if a man would express himself neatly. For he made a great figure in Egypt for his signal services. For he killed the Ichneumon-rat very pernicious by land. For his ears are so acute that they sting again. For from this proceeds the passing quickness of his attention. For by stroking of him I have found out electricity. For I perceived God's light about him both wax and fire. For the Electrical fire is the spiritual substance, which God sends from heaven to sustain the bodies both of man and beast. For God has blessed him in the variety of his movements. For, tho he cannot fly, he is an excellent clamberer. For his motions upon the face of the earth are more than any other quadruped. For he can tread to all the measures upon the music. For he can swim for life. For he can creep.

zookeeper killed by wolves in Sweden beside the beach you take me to watch baby seal pups it's your birthday, Coyo B, maligayang bati sleep comes over me make it through gongyo it's noon lean into salvation innocence nude turquoise pause blank space your subject head cinnamon rule narration suture destiny book hostile shelf you've reached a quarter century as is the case of parables your verdant hand recede lore as bridge barter abandon lore secure senility triumphant why Ill message you somewhere transcribe Vril stanza appear in adjacent room pause blank haste divine not on your birthday, Coyo B! I want you happy sorry to vanish why sing a solid identity sauna clamp HOY! your foot on the gas pedal of my Honda too demure to speak enter dialect ocean seismic Port Said it's probably too late to catch up October I mean a head of violent arctic squeamish despair nonesuch appraise no way somatic atlas or that beach we gaze at submerging pandas in cold cold ocean I leave you where cold can't recover itself outer engine portal corridor HOY! COYO B! establish announcement nerve of Rome counter Adonaïs imaginarium lead ulcer a dull terrain today you appear in adjacent room, viceroy finger in place marvelous period pause blank spate much to relate about our visit north of intention tell me, love, pondering the leaves

there, on the ground like dirt or a bird december froze & may thawed, blood misted, crying for any mother, the boy who called your mama a bitch bleeds our love for you, his wings frozen & fighting the cold wind of our sneakers. we storm him because we love you & your mama has fed us & only us is allowed to call her out her name because we know her name, Ms. Jones, & she bad & only we can say that & when we bad she has permission from our mamas to beat us like we hers. we hers like you hers. you our boy. we pool our punches into the boy like quarters for a bag of flaming hots. we make him look like a bag of flaming hots. lord forgive me, but i don’t regret it. &, on the real, all these summers later, i miss it. i wish a little bit to gather around a man’s body & stomp in the name of love, beat what he said about my next to blood back into his vermilion mouth, to make his mouth a beautiful, smashed tomato. really tho. Leland, you remember how we beat that nigga? our middle school ritual, that thirty-second eternity. later, i licked his blood off my nikes & dreamed we were water lilies holding the water down. • they were around me like nigga1 nigga2      nigga3 nigga4     me     nigga5 nigga6       nigga7 nigga8 & i felt    ...    safe? what could be safer than a circle of boys too afraid of killing you to kill you? the fists that broke my ribs also wanted me to live. i praise each one true god for each foot that was not a sharp anything. i had always wanted 8 niggas on me (but not) like that. each hand laid upon me like a rude & starving prayer. after a while i started to           like it i leaned into it      unblocked my face the bottoms of their shoes were the sweet of a well-chewed eraser. i was their promise. their ink. you should have heard them laugh a language so delicious i cracked up cracked grin & all. i didn’t know a thing about love until those boys walked away so happy. my heart pouring from my nose.

We could wipe away a fly, Drink, and order that yellow Thing behind the glass, peach Or sweet bread. Sunlight Is catching on a fork, Toothy wink from a star. The fan is busy, the waiter is busy, And today, in this café Of two dollars and fifty Cents, we’re so important Dogs are shaking our hands. “Welcome, turistas,” they say, Or might say if they could Roll their Rs. Where we sit It’s three o’clock, and Across the room, where Old men are playing dominos It’s maybe later, it’s maybe Peru under their hats. There are toads in this place —sullen guards by the door— And the bartender is just another Uncle fooling with the radio. “A little to the left,” I shout, and he dials left, Then right, until it’s German Polkas, accordions by the sea. The toads move a little. An old man clicks a domino. Omar, my gypsy friend, puts in— “Love is chasing me up my sleeve.” I salute him, he salutes me, And together we’re so drunk We’re making sense. Little By little, with rum the color Of a woman’s arm, we’re seeing things— Of a dancer, no two, Make that three with one chair. And that man—the old one Over there—is so blurry He thinks he’s flying.