Monday, July 23, 2012

Marc Vincenz

Inflation Goosed

This private book of stock reserves:
commodities stashed, bottled, insured—
reinsured into a blooming
daisy chain of fair-weather
consequences: the transatlantic flight
of migrant birds, an entropy
of scissored papermen. That fluctuation
of the heartbeat, the curve; the rise,
the dip, the surge. The bleeping
flatline. A who’s who of ley lines,
magnetic fields, feng shui
& sonic booms. In the end
as in the beginning
all boiled down
to a single glimmering egg
cracking, from the inside.


The Ex-Wife

I am one of those souls
without any resources
who roam about
with sleeves rolled up.
As blood oranges
grow out of the face
of autumn, she,
she is a vessel
of pure white jade
against the unfeeling hands
of barbarians.
How would they know the songs
that can break one’s heart?
Her memory is twisted
between two myths.
The one I tell my children.
The one she tells his.


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