We think a form of our thinking led
Admire his brilliant insight
into the recognized,
process of flint.
Ideas now considered
the latest wait
for mules to pass.
He was only twenty years old,
a military pistol upbringing.
the low solid woman,
munching humane values
and a soft discrimination.
“Love is just the language of thinking?”
“But it doesn’t feed you.”
The mailman dismounted Hegelianism and, from his pocket,
snatched up all the Germans in harmony. They had a ball.
I knew it to be water–earthier, not so afraid–and stood upon the shore.
Keys chittered in their cages.
The lake was a long oval, fragments of newsprint, urine.
I listened for sound cut off, curtains.
Under our care willingly to know
This objective was alien,
cloth habits seeming to glow,
making a sound they cloaked.
Felt virtuous, like a volunteer, a culture.
He imagined startling his certainty under his arm,
down and down to bring up in the bowels
the evolution of flatness and depth.
At Public Ceremonies
Morning carried into crowds, along with music.
The weatherless inside air.
He felt years of detailed but quite fragmentary real life.
“Cutting into the tree, I am unworthy–”
Saturated with water the brother had a bitter flavor.
Winds and storms prove navigators.
Black spiders lie in practice?
I discovered a hairy bee by the throat,
the bee’s sting very proud, sure of its death.
Foolish to deny
He was cold nature newly arisen in that image.
A new movement sent the Marxian system
to living out a pleasant concept
of light reflected against the plans.
All its social flow opened up torrential
in the philosophy of white, thick steam.
In that way–quick movement–closely interconnected,
he rose above the cold metal, other face.
I knew an Irish laborer who when spring came
weighed down by grief.
They find dumb flowing in fields.
It was said when fatal illness severely upbraided him,
the very spot in his midnight wander did not attend
the agony where the cruel words plead.
Aurora [ 4 ]
Oblivion gone, and left all again as smooth as scythe,
this flesh and devil, dark question slaughtered
broken, bare such bloody splendour
poured deep drinking blackness in default of air.
Here where it ends, a blood-stain whispered,
a chant for midsummer when flame fell silently from cloud to cloud.
What possible sphere of purer life?
[ … ]
After fevers notched here and there with knives
life struck sharp
this passage of delirium,
this awful lightning
like one in anger drawing back her skirts—
a blind ferocity, a glare unnatural,
all new and strange this world turned stranger,
these lips all weary and wormy with need.
I wept aloud, then laughed, then wept,
and someone near me said the child was mad.
Aurora [ 5 ]
Deep calling unto deep,
in his throat what seemed a name whispered
touched home, broke and blasted,
a cleaving of cloud, a flash of teeth,
those hands unguessed
prepared to wring from body
and when the corpses lay stark-stretched
the worst watch of night gives way
and lay ruined amid the ordure, shards, and weeds.
The spear should fall, I say,
and once more canopy the world with black.
[ … ]
All things blurred and dull and vague,
perished summers, some strange spasm of passion and pain,
naked-bladed I lay quiet there where I was thrown like spun glass
to assure their souls against dangerous questions shaken from the crease.
Mouths drawn sharply soured at the ends and braided tight
this pattern pricked fibre from fibre with pin—
we are of one flesh.
Aurora [ 6 ]
Cloaked and masked murder uncoils
stretches stark this rag of flesh, scrap of bone in dim disuse—
Mouth upon mouth, some fragment of a whole waxes warm,
speaks of consequence of something dead that might live again,
half-burned-out and all but quenched these motions of mine,
these waste ways unwandered—
What name for this?
[ … ]
Flood succeeding flood this incapable throat, these veins split,
we wear the night with empty hands,
a sense of separation, a blank obstruction—
Leave me breath enough to speak,
to pale and leave the world a-dusk, for that is fatal,
their angelic reach, this inhuman doctrine.
“Aurora” is a series of poems collaged from “Aurora Leigh” by Elizabeth Barrett Browning and “The Ring and the Book” by Robert Browning.
obtained a psychology degree from Lewis & Clark College
received a master’s degree in psychology from the London School of Economics
wrote a master’s thesis entitled “In Search of the Impartial Juror: An Exploration of the third person effect and pretrial publicity”
designed a line of handbags bearing her name “The Real Monica”
is the daughter of German Jews who escaped Nazi Germany and emigrated to El Salvador and later the United States
worked as a correspondent for British Channel 5, reporting on U.S. culture and trends
hosted a reality television show
enjoys yoga, musical theater, flea markets, museums, facial and color hydrotherapy
was a spokesperson for Jenny Craig’s diet program
was sheepish when she forgot to pay her cable TV bill
often offers toothy grins
gets introduced by strangers to their dogs
is friends with Alan Cummings
In my search of the American dream I have slipped into the American reality. The true intention. ?of whom. describe it, the dream. It’s there. The lighter ﬂick, the sip of something stored in oak. The haze from back before yesterday, if only to step back into. The American dream. That tastes like something momma’s momma made. Back before yesterday, the ﬂick and pops and stains happening in the microwave. American reality. Revolving.
There’s a swelling stomach at the end of the hallway bursting with promise, it’s full of shit. An American dream, it’s nostalgic. The way a dog might chase its tail, a centrifuge. Pinching off reality like a bad dream. A bad dream, it’s happening again. Like breakfast for lunch, the way a dog might have it.
A dirty guy with a face. At a gas station, ?you got any change. I got twenty dollars to my name. Then a pack of cigarettes and something in a brown bag. The cash register chings and all I have is coins and a dollar. The American dream, trapped between the gas station and my truck. Something dirty, revolving back towards me. Towards the door. Staring. The change on his face, in his eyes. In his hands metallic presidents and two joes. From his palm. A lighter ﬂick, for him and me. An American exchange, dreams and reality.
Internalize society. The way you play the Sims or Monopoly or Legos. The American reality. Dream about it. Real people do what we play. What we pay for, it’s called real life. And you better grow up real quick mister.
Call and talk to your relatives who are sick and dying or afﬂicted with alzheimer’s. Don’t just forget about them, don’t just empathize with them like a tootsie pop. Like how many liquors does it take till your liver looks like a tootsie roll. Like pop, like its in the microwave, being reheated. The American dream, stained in empathy. Understanding, the American reality. Underlying, the real condition. Recognizing your relatives. Lying, you’ll call them soon. Lying, there in a casket looking like a ﬁsh. Because one day, the world is gonna pass you by. Your whole life is going to be an American dream.
I wake up in the day and feel like breakfast for lunch. It’s nostalgic, last night wasn’t it. A haze. A hobo and a tootsie pop. Out on the porch. Telling me what to do like the American dream, like crunch. Swallowing me up like American reality television of the united world of America. In a state. Like there’s sand castles in a haze in bombshells and you’re telling me gas is higher than my gpa. Like seriously. ?Isn’t this the best Sims game yet.
Grandma. You’re a mean ass bitch. And quite lovely to talk to. That punch line….. ?ya knowwhatI’msaying. Literally, that same line that you say after you say some story. When you punch me in the arm, when you say it. ?huh. ?you know what I’m saying. It’s a haze, but you got brass granny. And a glass of wine like one of those restaurant drinks……ﬁlled with ice and to the top. You know what I’m saying. It’s like the American
I can’t go to sleep again because I’ll wake up and be back in American reality. Trapped. Somewhere on a porch, squatting on the cement. There should be a camera here. So we can ﬁlm it. The American dream. Sitting on the steps, like a commercial. Staring at a radio song, or concrete. Looping back in my head, in a haze. The lighter ﬂick and a sip of something you can clean your wounds with. A punch line. You know what I’m saying.
Something from someone else that goes off again. In your head, in your own voice.
The essence of American reality… and when I say American I really mean the entirety of society… I was going somewhere with this. With this dream. I thee wed. To the united states of determinable plots of land where dear and buffalo roam. Until death do us part. Muah, amen.
I want that new Sims game where you get to create time and gods and stuff. I mean like who wouldn’t want to worship a deity like Superman, or those polytheistic X-Men. ? Could you see it. The American youth, sleeping in. Missing out on church the day Iron Man vanquishes the middle east and its minions. At home watching cartoons of christ on the cross, saving the American dream single handedly. Like grandma. Downstairs in a different room watching reruns. Laughing, ?you know what im saying. A sip and a lighter ﬂick. Cackling like a damn demon. Lit up like a microwave, the American reality. Revolving, back into a dream again by breakfast.
Advice to the Graduate
- Once you go Big Gulp you can never go back.
- Reintroduce your currency to the girlfriend’s purse it crawled from.
- The things that you do will always make your mama cry.
- Your beloved’s name tattooed on your wrist is a curse.
- Your beloved’s named tattooed on your shoulder is a curse.
- Your beloved’s name tattooed over your heart is a curse.
- Most of your friends end up in California. A quarter of them catch up with their rock n’ roll dreams. Another quarter of them take yoga to a whole new level; they could never really get behind relaxation in Texas. The remaining lot develop an interest in the forestry service and want, no, need, to make a pilgrimage to all those old trees.
- In a battle of toughness, step on a crack in the sidewalk. You break your mother’s back. Leave the Freudian implications for your psychology major friends.
- That last one was a joke.
- Future ex-lovers include at least one country western song on mixtapes for you, but it’s not always by Dolly Parton.
- Dolly was the name of the cloned sheep because the original cell was from a mammary gland.
- That last one is true and sexist. It might help you win a trivia game someday.
- Manifest Destiny isn’t just a saying tucked inside a dusty history book. At night your heart will beat fastest when you face the direction your brain wants to go.
- Your pair of Chucks will not get out of Missoula alive.
- Slow dance with your lover on a hardwood floor.
- A sweater will come in handy when you least expect to weep.
- There’s still a way to your heart and pizza might be the highway to it.
- There’s still a way to your heart and pizza and beer might be the highway to it.
- There’s a way to her heart and pizza and beer might not be the highway to it.
- The soundtrack to Texas is in the bottom of a pocket, a pocket with a coin or two, some lint, and a movie stub from a film you don’t remember seeing.
- You can always go to Ireland tomorrow.
- No, you can’t.
knees on wooden floor
what small bullshit will I scrump today
please don’t like me only because I am familiar comfortable like sweatpants
sure I could warm my own yogurt behind the fridge
save a few plastic cups
but where would I squeeze the milk?
where is this cow?
where is my pasture?
as I like myself I think
if I get this thing I will be okay!
this is a lie
stop telling myself this lie
if I feel like swamp be swamp
then my finger starts to twitch uht uh no shakes
I search the web for right index tremors
When I am afraid I don’t know how to read a book
or make comments about book
but I do I touch it first
excerpt from domusphere, a long poem
can I tell you what is really in this room? a roach who doesn’t tire of collecting her pearls. an imposter fusion buffet, crusting at the stove
I only write when I feel the weight of patriarchy sitting juicy on my sternum, like Janet Jackson’s cover of Rolling Stone. so I don’t know if I love writing but I know that I like to look at writing as it writes itself so handsomely, what a good girl, doing work, right now!
out of sight out of my. tony thighs that ensure a stack of chicken breasts in the fridge. salted. a boiled boredom
don’t microwave THANK YOU bags from the store. don’t microwave chip bags to make a miniature LAY’S for your dollhouse. stop chip science
a coterie of votaries for my honey. a homesick fragrance for when I miss fish sauce, the thick kind that has the eyes of small shrimp embedded like seeds. slip into pages of cabbage in a rash of red
hot and heavy and heady. sloshing the meats and upheaving desire
cold morning obsessions. a hot pot
Selections from “In Hawaiian”
Like a wheel
Like a whale
Like a lake in a lane
Like an alp
Like an elm in an email
Like all hell, woe
Like a leak in a mill
Like a meal in a mall
Like kale and eel pie
Like a lame law
Like a lamp in kohl
Like a lone lapel
Like an ankh in loam
Like a lump, a mule
(Like a mime? Uh-uh.)
All hail me!
I lean on a nail—
A will unlike mine. Ow.
Now I am in Hell.
In a limp lineup
Men wave, weak in will,
Wean on ale
A while, a kalpa
While women wake alone:
Haul a pail,
Pull a plow,
Make an apple pie.
Know awe. (Wow!)
I am Allah (Whoa!)
Whip a woman on a whim, on a wall.
All aim! No appeal.
Pile on kohl
Peel a lemon
Keen, wail. Keen, wail. Alone.
Make a weapon,
Make a map, make lamina.
A man alone.
No woman. None in line.
Online pin-up. (No kink.)
A man alone.
A Pair of Authors And/Had Two Drinks
and went on to say
the ready road to regular readership
of capital and provincial proportions
may have chronic or biblical options
or steadily declining inner coverage
and surely sends a sort of signal so
perhaps seriously flawed misshapen
about tails, trails, tales and goings
off the rails for no good reason that
the normal ways to overcome this
absolute awe and thus awfully nice
torrent of abhorrent bile another
attempt to jump the turnstiles or
unleash an underbelly of so much
a prominent title
the haze of Gray’s Anatomy
continues to hang
over the entire flat shelf
of tomes and their siblings,
of works about us, vessels,
global-point makers of art,
cartographies so diverse
that dartboards are nests
for martins purple flown
from down starting blocks,
tarts of sweet-and-sour
somethings to reward
a welcome wealth of lore
honoring gods, goods
and easy-going mates:
friends all, fates fallen free
Sonorous, Sonority, Sonorization
for Ricardo Aleixo, axé
At Andrew’s, Andrea’s, and Alexandra’s Academy
the vector of voicing was verified as a useful distinction
when a virile visitor inquired of the bearded bursar if he
would disburse or disperse the monies he clearly should
and an unusual observer could not resist asking further
if there had been any actual intent to cast aspersions
on Persians or Pakistanis or others in diaspora
all while she did indeed purse her lips and let slip
this precious pearl of unthinkable linguistic diversity
this purseful of onerous seniority organization
of countless lines and items
F Y I > I Y F#
First & foremost furthermore avers
one of our most distinguished guests
You singular + plural must concede
that there are actual errors in syntax
In petitions presented by Mr. Yvan Navy
currently held to be one of the best
—even including preowned opinions
incomparable bias and fine prejudice—
advocates for the changing of his y-curved
name to a more palatable version
Ivan sought while in arrears
Yearly monthly weeks days
Forced reversal of the sin tax:
the onslaught of impositions
upon folks of such a different maze
Moss Trill is a blog/journal for experimental poetry. Send submissions to firstname.lastname@example.org.