I had the rare pleasure of sitting down with Tim Yu, Garin Cycholl, Lina ramona Vitakauskas, Simone Muench, Ray Bianchi, and Kristy Odelius to write some collaborative poems. We wrote fourteen over the course of an afternoon, some better than others. We wrote them because we will be performing them at the August reading of series A.
Below is one of them. The did not have titles. I just felt like adding this one.
Suicide Floor, or Anxious Ice
I have circled the moment and lost.
I have circled the nightjar tattoo that singes your skin with song
and static. A fake vodka rises from the old street corner;
the laborious Dutch style rising from the generator one morning.
Italian cars are stylish and sexy.
Portuguese cars turn on a dime.
It’s nimble and sick—and equestrian gnome or a gangster.
“The hair,” she says, “the hair.”
Tresses become an aquarelle, follicular and slick
and fold over like a worn-out fan.
The tenth of February sends you her love, her surviving cadence—
on the Ides of March they slew him.
Then we toasted his progress, mailed his left finger to Guam.
Mollusks, sick with jungle embraces, riddled with carrion fate upon a plain.
If this arrow enters your leg, you will become the carrion monster.
You will become a woman with no past, the moon shattering
like a blown façade, each jackal citizen hard,
a beautiful housewife, a cuneiform question, a Rosetta stone of pop tarts.
Rack jobber of verse,
I can’t fuck your sky—a lynx of anxious ice.
Ice. I dug through. I buried myself below in the frozen lake.
My bones formed a framework to keep you from falling through.
The suicide floor and its 7000 beehives.
Below is one of them. The did not have titles. I just felt like adding this one.
Suicide Floor, or Anxious Ice
I have circled the moment and lost.
I have circled the nightjar tattoo that singes your skin with song
and static. A fake vodka rises from the old street corner;
the laborious Dutch style rising from the generator one morning.
Italian cars are stylish and sexy.
Portuguese cars turn on a dime.
It’s nimble and sick—and equestrian gnome or a gangster.
“The hair,” she says, “the hair.”
Tresses become an aquarelle, follicular and slick
and fold over like a worn-out fan.
The tenth of February sends you her love, her surviving cadence—
on the Ides of March they slew him.
Then we toasted his progress, mailed his left finger to Guam.
Mollusks, sick with jungle embraces, riddled with carrion fate upon a plain.
If this arrow enters your leg, you will become the carrion monster.
You will become a woman with no past, the moon shattering
like a blown façade, each jackal citizen hard,
a beautiful housewife, a cuneiform question, a Rosetta stone of pop tarts.
Rack jobber of verse,
I can’t fuck your sky—a lynx of anxious ice.
Ice. I dug through. I buried myself below in the frozen lake.
My bones formed a framework to keep you from falling through.
The suicide floor and its 7000 beehives.
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