LIT 20: cover and taste

click through to read some poems (they’re rad)

Poem

Aaron Kunin

When you love what “you” think “you” are
Not supposed to “love,” “you” learn how
“To” do research. Until something
“You” would “not” let
Yourself want suddenly offers
Itself “to” “you.”

I loved the body “and” “the” voice.
“I loved” three voices actually.
One was a small “voice,” another
“Was” sarcastic
“The” third “was” declamatory.
“Then” “the” sadness

“I” brought from “the” north mingled with
“The sadness” of “the” previous
Tenant “and” became my own like
“The” shoulder bag
That declares “my” class background. “I”
Have two “of” them.

“One was a” gift “from” “my” mother.
Another “I” got at school. “You”
Might say “that” “the” “school” gave it “to”
Me. Because “I”
Belong “to” “a” “class” “of” people
Who never think

“Of” buying things for themselves. If
“You” were “to” remove “my” “body”
“From” “the” picture “and” concentrate
Just “on” “the” “bag”
“You” could learn “a” lot about her
Aspirations

“For” “me,” “the” position she thought
“I” should occupy. “Her” sense “of”
Smell “and” figures “of” speech. Fear “and”
Sadness “in” “her”
Breast entered “my body” through “her”
Milk “and” “I” died.

 

It’s nice “to” be “nice.” Don’t “you” know
“That”? “I” reply (“because I” make
Up “my own” lines “like” “a” singer-
Songwriter) “that”
Your wishes “for” “my” happiness
“Are” oppressive.

now the pros and cons

Eric Amling

The Everglades, I’d never been. Baby pelicans high
above grassy water; a nest of deformed hands in warm
slanted rain. Then a trunk of turtlenecks in the novelist’s
attic find a more awkward second life. And the mind
wandering in sonic turbulence through the grape vines
of online rumors can’t proceed with sudden prudence.
I’m talking about the good and the bad. In the plainest
whisper say, I can see perfectly into the side of your blouse
and a bird has made its business on your shoulder.
And I only want to hug you when your hands are full.
And it’s great we were out at that party when everyone
shushed our hand holding, as our devices were in their
sleep modes. As love is a convenient leftover
and by example, it’s a script I don’t care following.
I flipped the script. I’m a script flipper.
I’m behind a potted plant spying on a tennis rival.
I’m without a keychain light. I’d flash Morse code
right off a shoehorn. It’s my special hotline.
As right now move palettes of cannabis in the tunnels
here I am conforming in a line before a palindrome
of port-a-potties. A prone body drifting into the harbor
by the buoys, the water taxis, thus a boy runs to tell his father
he’s found a smurf. Then the coffin was shouldered out
into the churchyard. And the boy went on to finger
paint millions in the Miami arts. It’s a win win. Now I am in
Bel Air and here in the Redwoods, and here by the distillery
and near the yellow wood chipper where feeds a tick
plump with a pornstar’s blood. I want you with regrets
and with regrets, I want you. My honesty is a pink brain
abandoned in a fort’s chemical gun smoke. A gauntlet
of hell bent clouds, the perfect backdrop. I am tying
lassos to all the ceiling fans in the house. I will catch
the next big idea and not bear false witness. I will soap
the windows, not breathe a blind breath on the scales.
I will awake to a blue mist, a room towering with paraphernalia,
a totem pole haunted in need of translation. The peace I come in
will be slightly different than from which you’re used to.

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