Poetry
Five
The Birds of America
The tall
beach
&
the same
classic
certainty.
Thirty-four
expert
mirroring
impediments, casual
& dusty grey,
peering-- a fourth
of the fifth
cordless
ginmill
cut open
keeps awake
the
honed
windows &
grates.
The Story of Mang Gong
after I flew off the top of the car
into a bag
that broke I said “shit”
& I just lie there a long time &
nothing else ever happened again.
the end.
& then I didn’t get enough sleep & I feel like
Spit
The world has lots of strips
Otter
As kind individual keeping
If you ask me a question
I will hit you thirty times
Then,
I won’t ask you a question--
The rum tastes late
The hurricane is kept in the Petry dish &
There is no light rain
Time to leave the ending on the miniature war’s nascent
butt buying new software won’t help
It’s told to lean on it to keep it from copping some loaded
cut offs &
cleans it up to say to you
& you & you
this type of thing
& jade &
the raided localities keep linking
summer to a certain kind of heat &
the worst thing about getting older is realizing
the lie inherent in every emotional state so
I’ll see you on or from the roof of
if I don’t fall
on the other hand we are the unlikely beings
& our secret
is not to
talk about any one thing
Dimmer’s Data for Your Dad’s Dumb Idea About a Dumpster
Yeah yeah, it’s true, minimalism a kind of curds & weigh, but o how it rocketh Cassandra’s little bourgeois-flavored mnemonotechnicisms. I know that’s not sayin a lot, it’s lucky that way. . . . It is in this then that the cursory aspecticized semi-consciousness of spectacular special plait e-diners leven the meritorious heartfelt mythologizing we need so bad. The rolling hills. The unraised garments. The reading courses. Hurrah. If he weren’t a climber, he’d jump. There’s no encoded logic to the mourning peasant’s colicky expectorizing. & neither should there be. The artwork provides the sensuous idea of freedom.
Go With Your Gut
Loops of the small bowel
fight spam on the internet.
The search is over.
Should You Really be Concerned?
empanadas, glorious lobster creations,
and chicken bagel nerves.
I’ve got chicken bagel nerves.
“Hey, I no come work today, I sick,
headache, stomach ache, leg,
free speech.”
Personally, I go to bed early
after watering the Catwort.
It’s just what I do.
Sometimes when I have stomachache,
I lie face down in some internet.
Police Poem
Grace to be killed and die as brainlessly as political
The fiefed beasts &
\\ ‘hons’ unarrested in the trail pack tax. . .
the proletariat’s determing role in history stopped
with the bombing of Hiroshima
unbest
bright
chide
light-aright of an ink-fest army-civ this weed arose from the civilian code(s) a complex assonance the sages succeed in, weed-tested and in that brood a jolly captain’s new freedom it has four heads and gulps computer juice like power organized by one class to suppress another but i know as we all know Miket and a Sergeant named Healey . . .
cops just arrest people
capitularies & helots
accentuate the sacred power of yoga.
base tame mild-mannered look-away american methologies of enchambered meriken class-struggle-- its archetype is the cursory execution of every ninth one in line-- a 64th of the needed semi-wild flock (People all know the workings of order and chaos) People all know the map they showed us. People all know the gravity of advancement within the strong force. Their vital spirits are guarded within
and cannot be deluded by things. Things, however, are quite deluded.
Contributor
Rod SmithROD SMITH's latest book is Touché (Wave, 2015). His other books include Deed (U. Iowa, 2007), Music or Honesty (Roof, 2003), and The Good House (Spectacular Books, 2001). He edits the journal Aerial, publishes Edge Books, and manages Bridge Street Books in Washington, DC. He has taught at the The Iowa Writers' Workshop, The Maryland Institute College of Art, and The Corcoran College of Art + Design. Smith edited The Selected Letters of Robert Creeley (U. Cal Press, 2014) with Kaplan Harris and Peter Baker.
