My Bear

 

is alive and well

through grayness

through whiteness

and the gleam of

yon snow hill at

three a.m. when

light is like that

and the city is quiet

and weather is personal

just then soundless through

whiteness the punch is a

prowl and the flash is that

one green nominating sleep

for me the curl is precious

then it's a We for the slinking

through grayness through

whiteness the smallish

bearish brow indicating the

house's mood as we fly past

the XYZ's possibilities the old

bear blinks in the sun through

whiteness through grayness

through greeness in a window

shading the show




My Death



I can’t keep up
with you

 

Blank
place

 

Among the ashtrays
and haloes

 

My pet looks at me
with absolute love

 

And I look
back what

 

stars
yet
their moon

 

Yours is
warmth without
coins

 

A poem I
never write
right



How To Build A Creature



Like Villa Jovio
assumed to be

 

Tiberian in the
old sense

 

Gaius becomes
Caligula

 

Known by tracing
water down

 

to be inscrutable
and humble

 

Of depth
like a dog

 

Without a bone
I buy my face

 

Letting you
fry

Enyalius



From Hunger


With aes alienium
I'm healthy as a
horse

 

Led to the
glue works

 

Dissolve
and slide
under a door

 

All gold is
born in super
novas

 

And I've got
these henhouse
ways

 

Ruined by tall
doors and short
shades

 

Pass the amphora
Clotho, Lachesis
and Atropos

 

You bitches got
some explaining
to do




A Valediction



I’ve had it with your

sass Metatron. Walk

west till your hat floats.


Let us now clink glasses

in mutual warmth and

glows without number.


And I say unto you

let’s hit it till

it hits back.


Chilblains for currency

secondo be the last


Brief moon

and some

sun


Stars starry

star.




Any Day Anywhere



Pick a famine

any famine


Gentle a welt

enschauung


What changes

from blue to red


To make you alert

to make you notice


The leveled barrel

and glass by your boot


That I speak to you

only in my sleep


Hustling nekyia

among little terms


For a structure grows

its own controls


Gutters slosh with

or without me


And the proof

is the same


A rag covers

my face


First last end

uring embrage





The Last of The First of The Last

Conversazione
you can't barge

In here without
permission

I'm deeply sick
of you

And want to be
left alone

Lorn not
crazy

Waiting
for the sky

To sur
render

You spin
and your

Hair spins
with you

Fire your flies
all you want

It won't change
things

O grace that
I miss

O hunger
skipped

My very
own Alecto


Tighten the
screws a bit

I'm starting
to get soft

Under the
overpass

Heliotaxis
is the only job

A necessary
trip or function

The real cause
and ruction

Of all this
movement

Never is
always

Is the
genius loci

Of this
field of fire

I've made
this saftey

Ex gratia
exactly

Cheers to a
mobacracy

The main spring
done sprung

I'm going to sink my
teeth in you now


Warm and
friendly

Comb the
barbiturates

Out of
your hair

And climb
in the car

My love
we've got

Aways
to go yet

Despite the
calendar

Or
phenomenon

So I'm a
heresiarch

So
what?

This idiolect
will last as

Long as it
needs to

A switcheroo
a switchblade

I held you dear
in the late

Morning of
this thing


Short shadows
are guessed

Growing longer
is assumed

In all
sincerity

Put on your
gym shoes

And kick
rocks

An S carved
into flesh

A stereopticon
for heritage

Thanks for treat
ing me so well



[This poem first appeared in Zone.]





Space Show


    Johnny Reb

    needs light

in some Indiana

where the peepholes

go only so high.


    Numbers fade

    over photos of

    farm heroes

and we keep tossing

the last cash

to a grand cross

and vapor lock.


    O vaticide

    makes it easier

    to know

    the tricky legends

of truckstops and hanging

usable light.

“To get the value you

gotta chew it.”


    Then the fingered

    shadows of the only

    red chapel

which turns out

to be a smut shop

one hundred miles

from anywhere.


Even bombed

with the new

decency

    chords are

    no match

    for a starved

    Solyma

chasing the animal

down.


For every seven

crashes two make

it through.

    The old math

    of the New World

    is welcomed

at motels

and bars and cops

    sail out beautiful

    as wishes

    into a trainwhistle

    night.


At every summer

empty lot

the starts calm

o plea

    o stranger



[This poem first appeared in Interim.]









Sundin Richards' poems have appeared in Girls With Insurance, Zone, Colorado Review, Interim, Volt, Cricket Online Review, Elixir and Western Humanities Review, where he won first place in the 1999 Utah Writers' Contest. His book The Hurricane Lamp is forthcoming from ONLS press. He lives in middle class squalor in Salt Lake City. All of his time is spare, but none of his change.





 
 

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