Monday Apr 22

PoeDeborah Deborah Poe is the author of the poetry collections keep (forthcoming from Dusie Press),  the last will be stone, too (Stockport Flats),  Elements (Stockport Flats), and Our Parenthetical Ontology (CustomWords), as well as a novella in verse, Hélène (Furniture Press). 


sometimes a mask no matter how gold pants through pointed nose

bandage spreads by way of skin and forearm
no needle but heroin, and eligible confession

the secreted walls of late-night eighteenth, budget, jamais vu
the way memories reside between now and letter after

belied belonging by way of slang
Jardin pleasantries, punk, crush of gravel, a slight rain

outside the addictions, the freckles
combat jacket, chest swells, iced paroquet; boot prints on the bistro floor

Bellingham (The Butch Sunrise Mix)

often a lady, no matter how vicarious the rumors, dangles at rooftop drunken

tongue explores by way of robe cord and late night
no holds                                                   [bar] tricks between

waterstance and shell

letters language the conduit
abandoned truck and everything girl—untu(r)ned—

come morning   just the view
the bay       a mannequin       running shoes draped on a wire

[the pulling in]

the pulling in  
     the taking off
sounds of a train station
it could rain                                        could stretch the track across
a thousand bodies
         all this time                         to fly from paris to paris?
no, the people mutter,
never been to toulouse
  you hold a nest or livingorganism with
small thick tunnels
out of which one bird squirms
then another more easily flies free

[in laughing class]

“in laughing class you have to pull it from within” he says handing you a broken sonnet with a light. “all the world’s a stage,” you say, sipping coffee. “laughing is contagious,” you add. and the death goat marched proudly on.