I love the old philosophers
I feel the turn of the earth like heavy traffic
I am not a die-hard sports fan
I love to cut wood
Gender is a fuse that lights the way back
I love to cut wood
When I was a child I believed in a lake in the woods
Somewhere near Salzburg, a lake, fog on a lake… I am standing there as you are here, holding
A novel about Nazi burials
I have a large library
I am not a fan of Sappho
I am the newly dead
I go to a boat show and buy a dog
The earth, little movement and [...]
Belmont Overture (Poem of Eight A.M.) It’s about settling down and settling in and trying not to settle for,
about three miles from the urban core, where the not-quite-wild bald turkey, looking so lost
and inquisitive next to the stop for the 74, peers into the roseless rosebush, up at the pointless oar
hung above one townhouse’s swept steps, and the U.S. and floral and nautical flags flaunt their calm semaphore.
Walking past them, today, with our stroller, we note as we pass the wreath of real twigs on our next-door neighbor’s door
and beside it another, not sold in any store, made of pipecleaners and plastic oak leaves. [...]
How will I be able to keep you if you don’t disgust me a little? Why do you wear lipstick with trousers that are stained and stain?
At the end of the raspberry patch I found my own darling telephone hiding away like a little reservist. Why do you disgust me?
I can’t see the bridge any more. “You look like a Dutch interior.” “Then I guess I do know how pretty I am.” But it is not dark, it is very sunny.
5 a.m. (4 a.m. EST)
The island from above Became a hook, gesturing. Filled with sounds, The shape of three fingers.
The family, bereft, Witness to the 5 a.m. The bruise-colored money left. The motorcade on the left.
The slit, a haiku: Focused, deep as a tap. To stab a man, To write a haiku.
Crimson almost-morning: The abettor. Bermuda has One more flower.
It’s hard to come back from a grand phase—
morning most difficult, its shadow a tucked-
under tail bringing us back to this century.
What century is it? I can’t see your hairstyle. Nuar Alsadir’s collection of poems, More Shadow than Bird, appeared in 2012, and she has new work forthcoming in Poetry London.
The poems never end, they go on and on and on and on. You may contact the editor at email@example.com.
High School: Industrial Arts
The lesson today is: someone always gets hurt. Will it be you or another fool? This is a choice. We provide the tools and materials. The saws, the wood, nails, and supervision. Fall not now in love, for it is merely a distraction from your assignment. Now, create this uninspired name plaque, build stacks of unstable shelves, lament your lack of craft as the heat of your lust forms in vaporous pools on the floor just below your work table. You thought this class would mean an easy credit. Welcome to our workhouse. No one leaves this building whole. Consider now how this building’s roof’s akin [...]
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take Coke Zero my white Apple charger this Old Grand-dad logo with its hair line sunken eyes hey & give hot potato skins a whirl they're good lunch conversation but just skins in the end & you can only dance so long around something till it dissolves in Zero most likely yes you'll be sipping on a glass if you want ice please call for rocks please sit back & that glow off the TV is kinda making you famous it's honestly making your head overshadow the far wall & everyone knows today's celebrities are only caught dead in Italian labels they wear their faces so loose in full sun Ben Purkert’s poems [...]