Wednesday, July 31, 2013
Tuesday, March 19, 2013
FIVE LINES ABOUT THE SEA
an infinite number of degrees;
between one of these millions,
that turn into seaweed --
cast overboard will make a charm
towards another's home or our own.
Monday, March 05, 2012
Thursday, February 23, 2012
we are a tremendous
and foggy people;
your black jacket,
my black eye,
like ferns: older
and into the asphalt
and mud went the things
we would've lost anyway:
a painting that claimed
to solve the mystery,
my keys, and we were
what makes an evening:
the smudge of a streetlight
in my eyes, the hypnosis
of "please listen to me"
Friday, February 17, 2012
Thursday, February 16, 2012
everyone needs a lift;
sometimes a great lift
finds us free and easy
and it's a great lift to know
you're around; sometimes
we find we are miles away,
and a lift is all we have
big America lifted me up,
and you are big America too;
sometimes a lift is all
we can do; sometimes a lift
is all we needed; sometimes
lifting is magically achieved
miles and months away
Friday, February 10, 2012
Wide as an oar
and black as asphalt,
it twines with hair
on the backseat
of my car.
Some of my best friends
are poems, and some
of my friends are poems too.
My busted backyard grill
is a Connecticut winter
in the summer heat.
I am a kid coming home
from a few months at school.
The older I get, the fewer things
I keep in my car.
Thursday, February 02, 2012
IF THE COLONEL EVER CALLS
If late at night there is a ringing
and it's the Colonel, don't be frightened.
Remember that the funny twists
of the heron's neck are posture too.
Perhaps the hair on your cheeks
is bristling? But the Colonel was clean-shaven.
The Colonel's prayers were more communication
than supplication; the old phone
is more of an appliance than a relic.
If the Colonel asks for a report, tell him
everyone's fine; the rocky island in the bay
is white with birds.
Thursday, August 04, 2011
From the angle of the sun
through my bedroom window
this morning, I can tell:
it is 1986. The community college
parking lot is bursting with Firebirds;
stereo lights are constellations.
At night, the clouds thicken
into an empty map. They reflect
the light from down town. This morning
is one minute between rains,
and the drops on the leaves
are blinking messages from the future,
and while decoding them, I've forgotten
what year it is.
Now that I've scraped the house,
it is time to decide what color to paint,
but I feel like the work is done.
The house, streaked and ugly, is
what happens now; the house
painted grey-blue with white trim
is in the shady fortune-cookie future.
When I was learning to drive,
my first words were "floor it."
But now, in the future, I know
so many more. My foot eases
the pedal down; I repeat
the grocery list in my head.
Friday, June 10, 2011
Edgar the Crawfish
is made of plastic, but
he magnetically points East
toward Chocolate Bayou
and the big Bay, toward
broken by cannonballs,
and toward redfish schooling
beneath the Twilight Princess
Away in New York, we sip
while we wait for hot Friday
night to fall. Follow Kevin's
curses from the back room:
we will lock a cherry beneath
the knuckle of a lemon
and twist up a straw for you.
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Friday, April 15, 2011
Curious. What we remember
from across an age -- eight years
ago, evening light like marmalade
on a tar-paper roof, and a girl
bent out the back window.
Coins clinking on the concrete
floor of the bar beneath the highway,
but there were no coins, but
there was definitely a bar.
Light the color of a dirty Popsicle
cut up on the floor by the blinds.
But the mornings I remember best,
the light reflecting blue off of your bedspread.
I'd find a dirty shirt for work while, in your sleep,
you pushed yourself against your bed.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Your manners are skittery, Mr. Agnes,
are you frightened? The sign of the sine as defined
by this sunguard's line is all we have to go on, how
is your gradeschool geometry? The click of hoof
and wheel on stone will tick a thousand blessings
until: silence, and we are at the embassy, Mr. Agnes,
your reckoning delayed once more.
Monday, April 11, 2011
What hides down inside
these planks of wood?
on a bed of lignin
or, in softer species,
tracheids. But probably not
Friday, April 08, 2011
From the deepest Adirondacks it comes
through tunnel and town, emerging
cold as a Coors from my tap.
Thursday, April 07, 2011
and they do it from the Morrissey
concerts of Manhattan to the thoroughbred
sales of Ocala. Sloughters are an inspiration
in their decadence and their eloquence.
You who have explored the empty lots
of Asia. You whose birthday was attended
by Li'l Jon. You are the hard-chiseled soul
of our beloved Montechillo.
Wednesday, April 06, 2011
because I am as useless as a fire hydrant
in the backyard. Come over hand, and
meet this other hand. From the dirty
sands of memory and apathy, release
from your long necks and from your big mouths
a sound as big as a meteor and as bright
as a volcano. This is where our hearts began.
Tuesday, April 05, 2011
While another April storm
rolls in, the cat is acting weird
again. He sits in the bathroom
staring at the wall like a depressed
teenager, but (like me)
he is approximately middle-aged.
I try to remind myself that his walnut brain
cannot stand up to my pathetic fallacies,
but still here I am on the bathroom floor
staring at the cat, trying to divine
my own ideas by imagining his.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
finding fine things in dirty tides
Dear friends, freaks, and bigger fishes,
The brave among us will wade through a rare Wednesday reading when the abundantly talented and attractive Dora Malech and Kristin Jane Kelly will join us for a reading in the back room of the famous Face. This will be an unusually good reading, even by our high standards.
6:30 PM on April 6th at the fabulous Four-Faced Liar. Bios below.
See you there!
Dora Malech grew up in Maryland, earned a BA in Fine Arts from Yale in 2003, and earned an MFA in Poetry from the Iowa Writers’ Workshop in 2005. She is the author of Shore Ordered Ocean (Waywiser, 2010), and Say So (CSUPC). She has taught writing at the University of Iowa; Victoria University’s International Institute of Modern Letters in Wellington, New Zealand; Kirkwood Community College in Cedar Rapids, Iowa; Augustana College in Rock Island, Illinois; and Saint Mary’s College of California in Moraga, California. She lives in Iowa City, Iowa.
Kristin Kelly, a native Kansan, received a BA from University of Oregon and an MFA from the Iowa Writers' Workshop. She is the author of Cargo (Elixir Press), and currently lives in Northampton, MA, where she owns a women's boutique, ODE.