whimsical, weir, maybe, relentless, squeak, leftovers, bulb, goof, courtyard, terebinth, reeds, ghost
Beyond the Veil
I’d rather sequester myself in whimsical memories
(like a weir guides water) than face tomorrow.
Maybe things will improve—clouds can crack & show
a relentless sun-yolk dripping onto neighbors' lawns.
The front gate may squeak in warning someone comes.
I’ll throw out all leftovers and cook something fresh.
Every bulb in my house as bright as salsa music at dusk.
You were always the goof; nothing was as serious
as fun. I’d give twelve teeth to sit in a courtyard & talk
once more. My pain stretches taller than a terebinth.
My hands shake like reeds standing sentry in a tornado.
Reality is as silent as your ghost now, momma.
sequester, guides, improve, lawns, warning, fresh, dusk, always, teeth, taller, sentry, reality
What in the world does the light sequester
That guides these luminous velocities
In the afternoon heat on lawns
Warning the children of the harms
We covet with handfuls of fresh ice?
Dusk blooms swooning with bruises
The dark swallows as the lights come on
As someone glides a tongue on teeth.
The children are taller as suddenly roses are.
The ancient mailbox a sentry by the gate
Guards the reality of ice melting in a room.
light, velocities, improve, heat, harms, ice, swooning, swallows, glides, roses, gate, room
and watches the velocities of the city wake
these streets, always trying to improve themselves
these buildings, always trying to turn up the heat
these people with their blaring horns and bloated harms
but listen, it’s still there, the faint grind of ice and age
soon there will be swallows again
and slow skies, as the dusk glides in
and the roses with their heavy heads
and I will leave this house and close that gate
will make this field into my room
sky, velocities, always, buildings, their, listen, swooning, soon, dusk, heads, leave, make
dusk, darkens in the small storm:
beaks heads wings tail feathers
make a new being in their flying.
changeable, skittering, magic, down, in, watch, little, as, small, beaks, flow, being
In the pink light changeable as wood
The honest skittering of a mantis
Shadow magic drawn out of the blankness
Of the universe on this Wednesday down
Expectations of narrative a little cornered
A telescope perceives its small piece of history
Before the beaks peck raw the sleek image
And the whole tree falls in the flow of a stranger
Being inking out its vast language in the pink light for nobody
wood, honest, blankness, Wednesday, I, drunk, narrative, own, telescope, sleek, stranger, inking
The same pieces of shaped wood since I was a kid,
kicked over and over against the chunked-out concrete and honest graffiti.
Follow my shoulders and cultivate blankness on
a Wednesday afternoon before everyone else gets off work.
I pray my right knee holds out a few more years.
Travel in time, drunk as shit with David in Provo parking lots,
the feeling of the second act of the narrative just beginning.
To own my life’s recordings, I must edit and reassemble them,
back up so far that I need a telescope to see the better tricks.
Turning humiliation into something sleek and enviable,
transforming enemy to stranger is nothing short of a Spell,
the inking over the pencils, the coyote crossing Geneva Road at night.
same, against, shoulder, afternoon, knee, time, act, edit, need, humiliation, enemy, night
one sees the arrow the same color red
staged against the same color red gate
your shoulder over-sold on the word “target”
is the afternoon so worrisome, grating
one can’t wait to take a knee to the earth
so, as to stall time into itemized lines?
one might act as if the wall is so tall
one should edit it out and/or adore all its
need and ever-readiness to be cast--
due to its miles of under-noted humiliation
and its age-old calling, as the enemy of
a night more a maze than a lack of light
arrow, gate, word, worrisome, earth, itemized, tall, adore, cast, due, calling, maze
Our itemized list of grievances
the earth, calling itself mother.
drives, open, finned, and, dropping, grievances, daffodil, earth, time, signify, mother, must
On the overlook, one of them drives strange lust, the other, awe.
The world open became a sphere of discovery for them both.
The west mountains finned; clouds settled over them like veils.
The clouds were brides while the mountains were grooms. And
dropping into the front seat of the car, guest stars. Tons.
Grievances and promises share one commonality: they open us up.
Her face was a bursting daffodil while his face was a moon.
The light of the cosmos kissed the moist face of the earth.
Love equals time plus enactments of divinity, holy grace, loss.
Marriage is meant to signify, but what? She said it signifies
A mother loving something alive, he said it signifies a father
Holding something until it dies; a vow like that must be true.
overlook, sphere, veils, brides, stars, face, moist, grooms, enactments, divinity, alive, vow
the twelve stars in Mary’s crown
let’s go meet the groom of grooms —
scenic, celestial, lifted, seven, twelve, Mars, cake, meet, whole, wind, long, now
Scenic is a word which troubles students of art.
Gold-spun star in periwinkle sky, too celestial, too much pretense?
If you lifted away those seven magic trees, what then?
No magic seven. And that painting's winding road, false promise, too?
Take away too those twelve stairs leading uphill to the house,
Yes, you'd find that painting unmusical, like Mars, bereft;
Like a dead moon, a white cake cursed with cold white icing, too.
You'd meet such chilling stillness, wonder why those trees gave up, went
To storage, blankness—instead of helping whole soul's rise—to bliss.
Best to give us/them gentle blue-frosted whorls, spirals, of wind, in enchanted sky?
Deep green trees emanating their long and secret dreams of succession, rule?
Why not magic now? Answer their/our long-held wishes with an almost unbearable yes.
art, sky, trees, promise, house, unmusical, too, wonder, blankness, give, rule, wish
to make an art out of it, first
fling the aster seeds into the sky
you may think of trees as an audience of giants
but their promise is smaller, and better
their unmusical voices strange and familiar
nothing is too small for their arms which you call branches
I wonder where that woman is going
is her blankness as small as my future?
Eleven of our contributors collaborated on this group otis. (Click here to find out what an otis is.) This time, each writer donated one word for the initial seed words. To make it twelve, the editors joined in. Click anywhere on the otises below to be taken to the writers’ work in the issue.
