sadists are people, toothis sun has found its nihilistson cold curbs,on concrete roads.everyday, one of them guards the subdivision.i thought, “a sphinx, a totem piece, an angel of death.”whatever, my sleepy projectionist. it’s on my way anywhere.it’s on my way home.silver-brown maw, it’s at its ugliestshriveling inside of possum fleshin a slow taut hugof the last emptypromise.i won't be caught uplisteningforone.just lay therefor me.
PositiveLeft to me, your worst historian,to pick up, in a daze, some depth of dictionI never found while you had livedand I can only now pretend that words are capsulesof sanguinity, that they’ll unmask the symbologiesof sound that bore your binaries to their realmslike sacred dreams of Hypnos. Regret’s a simple word.I always thought of "A Separate Peace", and in those scenesyou were this Mozart in the rough, a perfect chord, onewhich I would meekly channel through cracks of lightshown through the fist of my own interference,steady indifference. Why this wisdom, now?The cosmic clown who wrote this songdoes not annotate our endings with an epilogue.I do not see the irony in celebratingyour new found space. There is no iconicity,no special shapethat serves the worldas you did serve,to bend and writhe the streetsinto a wellspring, a circuitr
low Ti'm too soft and rottennowto enterinto anything:closets, contracts,secret orders'sacred blood oaths,or thresholds; a frozen inch of facethe same as light years, oceans,never meetingi'd rather brush my mind with pillsand stick these artifacts of wealthhard inside your originsand keep the grassfrom livinglong
dead1.i hear these wordsand something happensin the yard;it doesn't fita poemor planet.i see it squeezeinto the slitsbeneath your shirt.i feel it fly the smoothof youfrom off your back. it turnsand hides behind the acres,stock frontiersof jagged rooftops,kept far and safeand freeof me.2.the squirrelhas left the limbas light would leavea photograph.i’m staring into its absenceand some new kind of animal is made;one whereonlyits reversal is alive.it doesn't move or breathe.the park is wintered over, and i don’t go.the poppiesare all gone.and when they do come back, they never changefrom birth to birth,a clan of inbredsisterhoodswith felt umbrellaclotsof karmathat don’t rememberwho i was.3.one last thought of your last thoughtand all the rest become their graves.nothing i remember, nowwill reach the earth. i have no bottom ground,beneath.the narrow knots of woodthat span and hoard and cup my selfare laughing into holes;the
toiletit’s understood.i rob you of your grace.we must be selfsameat four a.m.with a collar for our boneswith crickets in our window airwith angry sawteethsmothering in a cauldron.i never had a lover.be a basket for my worthless heap.
intelligibleYour acumen sharpensin the stirring of a bur oaklike a lifeform in the limbsa contretemps in the stillnessa whisper of a thoughta wrist jostled in a northern frontand here comes your aimless codepecking holes into the new winda raver behind a windowin a summering driftwood cathedralsummoned from a force majeurestealing from your audiencewith the paling dead of creek bottomsand figments curling in their wings.
windstorms and labworkafflatus, inflatus, my morning globe,as lithe as your impermanence.and home! dread homes! are rabbit dugs,spoonholed piles of mexican brickwhere nothing ever touches down,nothing here alive receivesthe plains’ poor offering of gypsy light,the ugly wind that meets the mudline.[metaphors]1. a mottled fence2. and how these storms hold faceless teeththat slat their eyes through butter-woodthen purge their guts on wintered florets4. some freshly headless nativities,their polyethylene skirts upturnedfrom violent sacks5. and knowing i’m a soulessspeck i lick at what is manifest beneath your hair each poison taba colouracidfire or lake a brothel and religious studiesi know, i know you never meanto murderor completemebut do not say “live for yourself”.i’ve come online to see the godthat came before me.we are so poorly marriedlike bookend spines of Plath and Hughesup on the shelfare somehowsynon
ChirpHow have you lived,thinning in your porcelain,and so easily?The world is blowing figurines from glass,politely spinningin its warm glowing beard,cells tearing offinto the Plan. You’re just another souvenir,a mute objector, a cleft in time kept hidden from the cold,and not long for anything.What is it that does not endureand still becomes a voice?On the far end of myselfyour hair is worn by nothing.How do you live?Some new tragic hope will come,appropriate my will.Your haunted choir of cricketswill vanish from the radioand I will not mourn their silence.I’ll feel the rough hewn stitch of new calendars,demands of unthawed space,medicinefor a curious disease,the tumbling spokes of conversationI couldn'tpreconceive of,the smooth bones of myrtleshungeringto resurrect themselves,their dark little beads frozen in their throes. How will you live!Only sounds are real. They make misery or sleep.Words have cut me from my home,songs scatter
outsideyou tore me out into the nightfollowing the worldthrough the bulb of your vestibule.what cures can come of thisshadowing the supermoon,grabbing handless at a halothat tumbles down into a pile of koans?we perch our listeners up in oakleaveswhere katydids shriek across the limbs,the song of neurons in our empty streets.the white cat settles like a chinese lanternonto the bench, and you sit there, too,the pair of you, progenitors of silence,suspenders of far off energies,the dark heads of heatherthat lap my nervous matterback into the belly of a girl.I wasn't meant to survive.
SurrealismThree a.m., andGod is in my bathtubagain—sipping whiskeyhallelujahs;backlit bya freshwater moonin the mother-of-pearl sky.
Sundropo n some days I watch you rise and ragewith a new yearfirework fervour–untamed and glorious,pulling the years togetherwith a snap of your fingers.but some days you are languid,stretching like the summer dustingof freckles along your forearms, theslumberous strands of hair shutteringyour sky-eyes from the morning light.on these days, I think the earth spinsslower and the birds sing a littlequieter. on these days, I lookat you and I think:sundrop.
NymphTranslucent asa dragonfly wing—her hair fansin the water, andthe sun bleeds.
prey.i'm a collection of curves in your cycle: a single revolution of your rhythm, my taste a mile marker.my hunger is satisfied by your rapture,and devoured by your voracity.starving to be grasped, claimed,and consumed, I feed death— give in,swallow black relief —your belly roundand warm with the scrapings of my bones.bury my leavings and tell me reincarnationis a lie.--1/16/2013Copyright © 2013 Jen FowlerAll Rights Reserved
ZemiThings having to be returned to their transparency: i. / green mist-earth / knit atmosphere / fathomless blue-lavender / lights spun out from light ii. are recalcitrance / and you are convergence & - a fingernail of summer - a melting of rain - a crown of flowers - a priest of sunsets(beautiful? I love you, because. Zemi.Zemi. are you beautiful because I loveyou? Zemi? ) iii. I imagine this is what it's like to breathe sea foam over the Cliffs of Moher: hydration. absolution. To Rilke, it's a melody that floods over us when we have forgotten how to listen for it. I never could forget this: for how could I know my hand as both well and chasm? and how could I know time, a windstruck dimension, standing in her white street? iv. We go on morning walks and Zemi laughs at everything I say.
IcarusFledgling of thefour-winds; feather-lightagainst ajaundiced sky(dawn is quietwhen the noose istight).
Sky EyesDesert hands tell talesof a hundred arid summers, butyou are no longer as cloudless as they(there is a stormcreeping through blue, blue veins).But tell the sky to keep her sorrow,that grey cascade blurring againsteyelids and horizons;and suppress her misbegottendroplets, seeping into the soddenground underfootfor there is still sun in your sky eyes.
glass in the tidegradac, croatia; summer.it is a town climbed up from the sea:a salt hymn, an exhalation, a brightly calcifiedspray. the houses here are overgrownas wildflowers, paths like tiny winding veinssprung alive between them. from my balcony i watchthe sun crest slowly into afternoon,and mothers lead their childrendown stone slopes, arterial pullto the water. by the shore,vendors sell bottles of olive oil, salt,sage, gathering up anything with the tasteof what mystery inhabits the air—brimming overthe glass lips, a curving kind of joy,the whole earth, a bowl of it.at night, my uncle drinks beerand i drink wine. he watchesthe football game and i tryto write this poem; try to bottle with languagesome tipped draught of the night waterbelow me, the children still dancing loudin its repeated unfurling,opal spray.in the morning, we swim, and stretch outour salt-damp bodies at the edgeof the sea. lying there, i rustlethrough the beach's tiny stones, pick out emer
MinotaurHer minotaur bows lowand dreamsof a deft approachsome way inwithout thornssome tiny giftof need,or perhapsan offering of rainleft killing on the grass.She senses him,the bristle of jawjarring the forest,and the long white of her armsteaching himthe value of fear.But his eyesgo blank at her glance,the snare of heata braceletat her wrist,and his warm flanktelling her new mythsare for bleeding.
the night in Sagadalily-white fingersforget-me-not eyesdandelion bonesthe unfurlingof wildfire,the sound ofhair and sinewcracking then breaking.ripped then burnedthen smothered.the songof raven wingsand starvingmoons.the soul ofa dispassionatebody billowinglike the waves beneathdead skies.your grave.
anatomic residencythere are little people sitting in the hollows of your collarbonerubbing their handsand huddling together to provide warmthin the soft dips of youi give them life as lakes tumble downmy cheeks, stream across your shoulder& they lick it up as i dry my eyeswith your skin tissuesometimes, if the children are luckypapa will take them to the mountainsthey climb to the back of your neckand they just sit in the spaces betweenyour vertebrae, no gravityno thoughtsjust spine.
DebussyRestless under theclairvoyant moon—dreams quiver likecandlelight againsta long-lost muse.
SerenissimaSlumbering sunstake a midmorning nap;alleyways bright withgolden ladies,their smiles canal-deep.Nightfall brings guides:stone sighs and dead light,(never so alive).
summergirlNow read aloud over here. Do give it a listen, won't you? i. summergirl,you are crowthroated and tumblingthrough the aspen grovehair on fire with sunrise, lungsfull of sky.eyelashes like wildflowersand every morning bringsa new spray of frecklesand a sharper curve to your collarbones.the cornfields hold no shadowsfor your lighthouse eyesand there are no endings in thatsurefooted smile. ii. you have grownso fast.autumn finds you with broken anklesleaning on an oak branchand watching the skies.crow to sparrow--you are quiet.summergirl, there is peace in silence,perched treetop,fallen antlers in your hands.you will come to mourn your deer.keep them close. iii. by winter you have paled,and like the streams your eyes have frosted over.you feel the chill--there is no need for sight.summergirl, th
pacificher longbow mouth is un-strung; loose bottomlip with a cockedjaw -.shebirths into him likea womb
this is not a poem about lovethere was a girlwith hair as long as thedistance between eachof her footsteps and eyesthe colour of rainthere could be a girlwith hair that reminds youof her with pretty wristsand purple veins i don't usually rhyme but youdon't usually choose girlsby the tone of their voice andi want it to stop, so i guessi should too. you don't usuallychoose girls by the way they blush (she'd have cheeksthat'd blossom into wild roses), but you doi thought you'd marry the girl,(the right girl), the one that'd make you see everything in a different light, as if she wasbreathing out a different part of the spectrum everytime she spokebut apparently not - i've seen the future, and iknow you'll marry the girl thatmerely breathes out the sameshade of grey when she compliments you on how you'vedressed today(i promise you, that rhyme wasn't intentional)i'll marry the man who doesn'tsend me flowers in the rainbut rather whispers a neww
lifelinesI fear the sound of sparrowsand the density of leavesagainst dew-muffled bladesof grass,and I'm drowningin the sky.My skin has learned howto peel itself offwithout causing a commotionin my marrows oreven show the slightest hintof pain,and my heart has learned howto hush the stars in their wakeand keep it all a secret.There's a sea in my mouthand I can't swim.There are lifelinescast like these and it willall end with the same tragedy.
Glimpsing MorningLittle bluebird preensperched on the garden fence,morning dewclinging to clenched talons.Tomorrow,those featherswill be strewnacross my lawn--little bluebird beakbroken,singing no more.
historythe air was molteneverywhereyou leftiti see the evidencecooling in your wakegranitemonolithsand iron maidens