A bends against and molds to certain shapes. A fitting of amorphous scale textured substance that holds onto itself and thinks itself held onto. It moves water-like as one body but fights the break. A break against though in slow motion becomes this bending and molding. If sped up many littling water droplets scattering. An architecture of a substance slowed down nearly to at rest though creates the space in which architecture can begin to wind in staircases, dip into the substance surface ground, garden plots determine themselves. There is space within the architecture for multitudes upon movements upon meandering. Almost as hollows opening up and outward.
“Other mistakes you repeat, finding yourself
in a familiar place, but worn out, like pigeons
circling a roof, the flock growing bigger,
then smaller.”
Kellam Ayres, from “Practice”
“TAKE ME IN says Girl holding open the water on her palm and coating herself in dirt. TAKE ME IN says girl and then runs from dead tree point to dead tree point to dead tree point her pigtails ringlets curling bouncing slick and heavy on her Girl shoulders.
The World takes her in by wrapping its tangleweeds around her legs, tipping her up, and dripping the water from her.”
J.A. Tyler, from “[this town]”
“The trick is to fold the paper and the message enough times to make it disappear and then to swallow it down and keep it in the belly until the body either bursts into flames or elevates into the Sky and is rendered rectified recognized reconstituted reformed reshaped re-upped recounted recast re-carved re-cut in the shape of something normal again.”
J.A. Tyler, from “[this town]”
“Boy says to Land:
LEAD ME ON
And Land it says:
NO.
Boy stands.
ON.
NO.
ON.
NO.
Boy stands Boy goes Boy walks Boy runs Boy runs to nowhere Boy runs from dead tree to dead tree to dead tree, from point to point to point Boy eyes leading Boy to creamy white light bouncing off shiny objects. Boy goes from object to object. Boy goes from treasure to treasure. Boy picks up the World a bit at a time and puts it in his pockets and keeps it rubbing his thigh when he walks from dead tree to dead tree from point to point to point from shiny object to next shiny object to put in his pocket to take with him to re-piece the World back to the World Boy knows knew used to be in used to live in used to understand.”
J.A. Tyler, from “[this town]”
“River painted on the Mountain’s side, River going down River flowing River then stuck tar thick not dripping not dropping not moving River going solid Land going burned Land smoking Mountain opening up and spitting fire and spitting flames and one by one the People swallowed and Ocean a tar pit and Ocean a soft pillow of black brown red and Sky uncovered darknesses and Clouds of ashen People and rain never coming and water never coming and water gone and Land unclaimed except for the staked herds traveling.”
J.A. Tyler, from “[this town]”
“Say it sad and plain:
that this poem
is a void.
That this well is
as far as your voice
has ever carried.”
Marcus Wicker, from “To You”
“Farther east, the trees that pink first have. The poets wait for them, know in their ligaments the very day the trees will open their plural hearts again. All winter, the poets stay quiet in the rooms of their minds, preparing to let spring surprise them like an old lover on the platform of a far-off city. But I am muddied with noise and want.”
Kate Petersen, from “Red Roof Inn, Route 5”
“He believes I’m spacier than I am, but I’ve always got at least a few fingers in the earth.
Though sometimes I have to hold on.
Snow like billions of silent electric punctuation marks.”
Rob Roensch, from “Dark Molly”
“She looks out at the snow and the snow is the world is the inside of her mind.
The snow is not beautiful to her or to the world; it is happening.”
Rob Roensch, from “Dark Molly”
