Monday, November 24, 2014

Jeff Harrison

Queen Nab Masquerade

a toast to you, passed-around worrier
dark surplus water rattling around as
you're bending breathing in white grasses
skin my enthusiasm & see how pretty
it is then, a sequential enthusiasm anatomy,
layers nabbed clear & ever clearer
if in such clarity we have silence & if
in silence we have death, then in echo we
have the cradle, words don't spread to the
edges of my breath, these edges are
spattered with blowflies, our bones are
the roots of the sky, the hair of our head is
the bottom seam, is the center of the Earth,
if this cup could snow, its saucer would be
a bank, Queen Nab, faint with feeding silence,
words imprisoned on hairs slender like stakes
dark surplus water in this toast time of your guts

© Jeff Harrison


Friday, November 21, 2014

Barry Alpert


            via Paul Sharits & David Franks

This straw,
its draw.

this drawing,
it’s Troy.


© Barry Alpert


Jesse Glass

The heron stalks into water

we follow it with our eyes
until it disappears
into the dazzling, heart-shaped chaos
of the river
& slips beyond accidents of time & place
duration & extension

& in this momentary blindness
we hear it rise
with careful, swooping beats,
& track with our ears its vast invisible arc
  & think it home
  while the small things creep & feed
  & become themselves the rock
  they crowd beneath

& know that in some future time
the heron too may grace the thickness of the rock
with open beak & twisted spine

& give the rock its wings

© Jesse Glass


Tuesday, November 18, 2014

Peter Thompson


               Words Arrive

Words arrive at a spillway of loss
slip toward me and away
A friend writes of loss
Words arrive
each falls away irretrievably
drifts among sad companions

Words serial yet failing to link
and I am made public
Alone I am shorn of them
so it is conveyed to others
Indignation so great it is public
The edge of fate swung wide
in a gathering place
it leaves us all throatless

A pain so great you scramble
to find him in it
and it comes off less as my friend
than as sorrow’s canny translation
A thing never spoken so how
is this his voice
what is still to learn

A loss that is written
Words were they poem or
letter or notes to be read in a church
hauled themselves hunched and glinting
through all of these
any of these
signaling a permanence
a scandal clothed and accompanying
they can never address again

Are they the tare weight
or the heavy thing itself?
His metaphors superseded
further signs revolving into view
And with this new failing
my own fall forward

A solace not imagined
and not asked
A gift imagined
and with daring
never given

A child hauls truth
from a point in the sky
A man is left with paint
that refuses to dry
We are left with our footsteps
and words which bump confusedly
Words scratching in the air
boons to each other
hung in the sere meandering

in the sky now draped at our door

© Peter Thompson