Laura Young

Structure VIII

***

***

Glenn Bach

 from Atlas Peripatetic

108

Let these drawings show
the status of the morning.

Wake, now
in the city they represent.

Evaporation lifts
upwards.

Elsewhere, snowplows
tear into silent corridors.

***

130

Kill and be rough,
wander and render.

Declare sold
    these medicines and correctives,
the purpose of travel
    without stopping.

Who maps this neighborhood
    of points and signals?

Who is intermittently aware?

Who tallies this audience of patrons
    in seat or station,
a quorum of lines drawn,
the twelve parts of heaven?

Who lode,
who burrow?

***

131

Image hover
    through gloss of crow.

A light violet
    on rain gutter.

Handy to the nest,
a signal of land ahead.

What loss of gray weather,
grip loosed from metal.

Sonic, ultrasonic
    terror eyes.

Thus the reason of scare,
a region of all seeing.

***

155

Impossible dust,
listening for water
beneath streets.

Near-miss,
smoke out there
across the river
banking and black
billow, surprise
         of high iron
shower of paper,
late again trains
stranded, crowded
stops, not a small
rubble and acrid.

Rained much of last
         of what was not there
in this sight of smog
against the very blue
empty open
below which
         everything
downwind of water
upon land and earth.

Steel girders down
lens of this cloud
of dirt and ash,
bewildered and bad
sun dark in scale,
secrets far greater.

Shelter in normalcy
harbored, sustained
scale of numbers,
the full text
    of two cities.

Midst of bridges,
how long the trip
cold enough to turn.

Tension, the air.

***

202

Lurch
         against the faint
incline, sparse
    scattering of stars.

         With waves
an evil, shrouds
    of a ship, laurels
worn by nations
                   or thieves.

Beauty we try
    to preserve,
undoing the world
              one morning
         at a time.

***
***

John M. Bennett

no ma

n the cold meaty rain PO

ZO CACATORIO me pu

se la looping gland shirt th

shirt e s tro king ntium

blinding in my  )sh(  oe

]the weaseled feather dung[

leaks inside my thigh

“mi caderonta”  )manga

de riñón purulectivo(  y y

o te descifraba el go

teo relentless ,reloj q

ue nunca se se ca

ña putrefactífica en el

río es ,tan cada ni

)una de mis manos ,mano(

 Para Roberto Ncar

***

***

Peter Ganick

***
***

Mary Kasimor

requiem for dog

at My FIRST communion the PEONIES

shot off

their HEADS for god in Glorious

red the Anti-ANTS’

sentiment IS no THING

but SCIENCE is the BODY of

CHRIST and not A force of Nature

but the sheer WHITE

SUN wears ME

encased in my natural Family

NEXT To THE china slippers

when I was OF age I found

my BODY fettered by Holiness

SO I sez TO JESUS Christ

there IS more to

THIS than WAXEN breaths OF PAST

dead I Miss

my grandfather and SOON my soul

WILL disappear into the flames

then THE ashes will SETTLE

into My HAIR

I used MY last SILVER dollar

and Salvation eludes EVEN

the ANTS in a piqué of Bloody

peonies that ARE Still

and related to another AUNT

who WAS never

on THE farm WHO lived with Old

DUST next to dogs and

god crocheting her FUTURE

WITHIN fortune and AN Impatient HEART

breaking NEXT to that Holy

photo of me

and DOG Bleeding ALL over my Breast

***

managing the chaos or on to plan b

amid the tension in tensile

form shedding the streets dumped

hucksters sharp darkness

the royal blood among the bees

and be-knots knotting intersections

shake lose the lights in failed language  

in the gestures

keeps everyone tight in intricate knots

the feet fake the moves

stars wrestle on the roofs like messiahs

flashing the earthy flatness

of wonders the words the words

the flash of words keep

the golden words shake the fiery moths

falling onto staged eclipses of shaken wing span

brain spun and myth

struck agog and angry and radiant

and lists of naming of

a flight of numbers like geese

of intensity of falling of something

more than the strokes of wheels

burnishing the calligraphic floor

and inverse echoes and fences of flies

in the calling of bodies and rocking the rocks

and throwing the rocks and the rocks fall

onto the final clinging humans clinging

to trees and bushes and editing

words of motion and form

and tunnels and clinging to a tree

of syllables cross stitched

and tied together

and smashed and bloody and thin

in the streets the blood

flowing from here and here

and 10 miles from the spot x marks

the endless row  houses and blue doors and

neighbors who don’t know

who don’t know who might

know but don’t want to know

when everything is in its place and placed

between the land and is in negative space

and pasted on the wind

and with the wireless horizon  

on to plan b

***

               butterflies passing through

identified as normal no things in flowers daughters

& sons spare the rod from guilt spliced & diced into

& my lot in life passing by the tomato gods stepped

on by roses of claw feet the fountains  bleeding

succession of humans passing on the fingerprint or

losing children on the way to the store found hidden

in radiant thoughts or elbow magnetic impulses or

magnets of the refrigerator with photos of identification

the loss of baby skin & I apologize for that forgetfulness

& what you like about yourself & photos of flies &

              pasta dishes & falling teeth from this we return

***

mother & pieces

what time was your Shape                          at birth

              as you broke into pieces                 & a Piece    

    slept in my bed           I named it after            You &

it took days            in the sun & the rain     Down by

        the river it        glinted like pain          my heart  

a speck         in the distance              the Man in the moon

           explained          a tangent                   of the film

only it was about            a Lemon         I didn’t understand

it until             now I don’t exist                         & if I do it is

       Because of the label    that I        wear Organic poet

        small sole               Space                                    person

         let me sleep       for hours                as Anonymous

                           ***

blank boxes

I wanted to hear light shake before the event

so I placed my heart

in my hunger

& it might have been home

but the myth started

as a sound & it braved the dark forests  

hidden waters &

it was in the middle

suspended moon shape

is chilly

without heat

& goddesses played for blood & drank in lost

directions & the myth became a dream

desired at night under

feathers & green cotton

a romantic brain

the fear of the body

before food was discovered

I looked out from my eyes & couldn’t

decide if I existed as an idea or skin

a lung ears intestines or

the taste of water

I revolted

from boundaries on my tongue

moving my shape along

a clumsy wet vegetable

a heart thrown

Into the river & past

the oceans

deeper than thought it proved

it was silence & I never heard myself

at the end when beginning

occurred I slept

with my arms holding onto a box of holes

***

***

John C. Goodman

The light is ordinary

on an ordinary day

          – our greatest tragedies rouse nothing more than a shrug

          – such ordinary misfortunes

          – mere heart-rendings

So much is contained in a moment

a passing of music, the scent of cinnamon and cloves,

a shadow across a table, the soft catch of a closing door

An ordinary moment, indistinguishable from a wind torn wisp of cloud

It’s the silence that is so big

          swallowing everything

          gulping down the light

          erasing the ordinary footfalls on the blue and white tiles of the ordinary floor

                that lead to the closing of the ordinary door

***

***

Teresa Peipins

The Century Turns           

Amphibious we swim

some of the time,

emerge sticky, dun colored

from the murk of our ancestry.

           

You are too much mine.

Erased by foreign lands,

for us there is no tomorrow,

no promise of children.

Your suit hangs,

shoes polished to the sonance

of Paris streets.

Your country, Congo,

is left behind.

At night,

the distant drip

of blood 

seeps behind our walls.

***

***

Volodymyr Bilyk

***

***

David Harrison Horton

fr. Great Coat


Without signs, the visual

a walk around the complex

mapping landmarks

Lei Kai didn’t use a manual

to teach Lei Feng to use a rifle

he showed him

*

When you join the Army

you get some socks

later you are taught the art

of darning

thank you Wangcheng County

I will work hard

and love my country

*

Dust so thick the bridge

disappears, blocking the view

of the destination

3 x 3, in line, in unison

the slow march forward

Lei Feng remembering his debt

to Peng Demao

never once looked back

to the village

*

Left home

to witness the emptiness

between the branches of every tree

to get blood payment

for blood debt

Mr. Lusk couldn’t remember

how he cut his hand

but knew it had been cut

and that Spring

was a sorry excuse

for a season

*

To study well

to hope for advancement

the bigger narrative curve

farming

undisguised as agriculture

a teat without milk

a concern that outweighs

the desire

to watch the sun

set


***
***

Diana Magallón

Thanksgiving

***

*** 

Lars Palm

Nobody's Wedding

 

invisible bride & groom

exiting possibly non

existent town hall

 

not quite in time for

their honeymoon due

to bees on the runway

 

the survivors all say

it was a blast

*** 

 

Two Left Feet

 

were crossing the street

         one got run over &

the other one was speechless

 

tangled up in shoes out

on the dance floor

to the delight of

 

cops stumbling around on

their beat not having

a clue what's up or down

***

***