This week in The Poetry Section, two new poems by Michael Schiavo: Scarlett Johansson on the Fourth of July and We All Operate in a Ghost World Where We Are Maharajah.

Scarlett Johansson on the Fourth of July

Hey the island is way out there. My Captain

        you collapse the particulars to crystalline

             epiphany the color of Rome in May

        the warmth of 2,000 years washing over kitten &

cougar the same. Arapaho birthmark

        the new Animal Collective makes my mind.

             My Friend you are a skilled hunter

        the roses bombing the pyramid serve

your patriotic lips. All around you knives

        of sun serve up bountiful banana perfume.

             Told the man I wanted a raven

        roosting on my shoulder when I woke

all I get some crappy lights green

        streaks of melon-rays bathe my crotch

             nuzzling like the Immortal's corgis.

        Ah so this is the empire what the empire

brings me so much wonderful why recall

        how I complained! My Siren silky

             milk-white garden under lavender moon

        light lodged in my mind marvelous

invention but in reality you are here on top

        of me. Woman running from no more

             straight to the arms of maybe

        sometimes you concoct dreams about

me & you & lions emerging from tall grass.

        From the time of witches you

             emerge your penis as long as the President's

        at least when she still had one. My Domina

I await the future with open arms &

        sister here comes my summertime.

             But that happened. This. I'm talking

        about all the advantages a black man has

in this country in this real radical age

        John Lee Hooker. My point exactly.

             He rescued those iguanas from

        the terrorist librarians at Great Adventure.

Repaired a spaceship & they flew

        him to Saturn. Collected nebulae

             in a firefly jar returned to Coahoma

        where there he built the largest reptile farm

in the western hemisphere raising

        the stakes. Shimmy shake my Long Love

             a month of smooth-fucking. Vampires

        couldn't even vanquish the man

had so much power. I saw him once

        at the Varsity. He called me by my name.

We All Operate in a Ghost World Where We Are Maharajah

I am before you tiny as a bird as the tiniest bird

        you can hold in your silver palm of rose.

             In the midnight a little noise go off

        in the forest of your mind & very

far away a lighthouse keeper wakes

        to the sound of another sound you make

             when you're not making your always sound.

        Winter. Not just any old. I couldn't call you

Doris if I tried. Manu Ginóbili. Too many lions

        surround your heart even on the sunniest day.

             When entering another country you must

        size up the anatomy of the architecture &

take your time doing. A moonlit garment

        yet to be encouraged. Stop boring us

             & get to the real. Whatever you mean

        I mean it a little nefarious. Last one

to make me delirious delivered Montana.

        How many suspicious packages must arrive

             'til you conjure me through your XBox 360.

        No time for footnotes when the new dawn

battles me for your attention. What chance

        have tiny birds? Gray in the pink lemon

             light over you sleeping inside

        the traffic outside an ocean to never near.

Above you circle osprey. Above their squalls

        a million astronauts ride triceratops

             in what may turn out to be an extremely

        valuable piece of contemp'ry art. No soothsayer I.

Save for the arena in which we two now square.

        There is over your shoulder some kind of

             werewolf. And as you're distracted

        finally the aubergine curtain rises where she is

the pirate ship come to capture you home.

        I fear you say I hate to see the evening sun go down.

             On this blood-dimmed shore with the relative

        deep feelings shared by those with common sense

who have insight about desire compassion

        the stupid things no one pays money for

             I tell you wow I love the nighttime. Cuz

        if not in dreams how do we summon

the day won't come when I see you never.

        I see everything always & everyone a little better

             the sun is a fox in the henhouse.

        We fulfill one another without

one another even. Wonderful in the night.

        Energy in the night. Something to be said for

             not ever being alone. The moon comes out electric

        your mouth when you sigh is the Lariat

of Truth in the hands of them lions.

        Strange days I say what chance have tiny birds?

Michael Schiavo is the author of The Mad Song. He is editor of The Equalizer (coming 2010), a co-editor of Tight, and contributing editor to CUE. His poetry has appeared in Forklift, Ohio, The Normal School, Sixth Finch, jubilat, La Petite Zine, and Fou. He lives in Vermont.

You may contact the editors at poems@theawl.com.