Scantily Clad Press, 2009
Thanks to Left Facing Bird in which some of these poems first appeared
'One Another In Another Beginning' Teeth are one ton: are tracer rounds like duckbills stacked under, in a row: are simulacrum of underwater, or marigold strain. Theyâ€™ ve another indiscretion, polyhedral in Benzedrine. There are too many of us; too many of you. Too many even slits in the skin to make the water flow out. There are no more reverberations for the glass coat with this coast slumping into ravines of sawdust and evening wear. We broke our gums on regional ties.
'Profumo' All these feathers that tickled lean were revenge by the cadence of the dashboard light.
'Saltine' You were what festered when the rain water sat out. I was made. You make me illness I feel like you are.
'Filmography' I wonâ€™t bore you with my Benzoate or my need to perpetuate my stereotypical views on musicians shoes, but I know my carburetor when I see it two doors down in wet cement, wasted again off melon fumes. I brought the night out and in shimmer magazines was cut up and was circumvented into plastic bags of marshmallow cream. We were short the $2.30 we owed on the day we went to pick up the mermaidâ€™s regime from the ghost we lent in taco seasoning.
'Hurts, Govina?' I was on my way to kill myself today when I saw a blind man (stick in his right hand) pushing a woman in a wheelchair with his "free" hand. He said, "I see how hurricanes are conceived: in the wisps of wind blowing around your hair and down through your footholds." As she drooled, she smiled a lemon dropped from a perched doorway, scattered among the revolving masquerades.
'Turncoat Parade' This is my gestation, my way of spilling rancid values over the roses in the yard. The milkman has a swig: too many afternoons left to be filtered into her discretion.
'Boxcar Smoke' I had a hand encrusted in salt and sold as market forces dictated to us the solemn variations on which to base our school. Would history decide our genre? Will we be playful or melancholy? the rusted vision of an old sax case is more than the lessons of 9/11 could ask. We borrowed and the exclamations rolled emoticon sickness through the twisted cell phone ring maze. I stole my playlist from cultiv8 and I hydroponically engineered my revolution.
'A Mother in Waves' The sea swims with me and wakes me up. Later that day she comes out when the sky dreams slowly after dark. Flowers sing just to bark at me on an angry day. I am the lion or her far away isolate. A farmer tells me a joke but I eat the monster sometimes. For me the map is going to be a story after the stars come to my house in the morning. Before the old king digs a hole, a scientist goes in the ocean with the peachy queen. Cut too fast he sails a boat too deep.
'Graveyard Poem' sometimes the scratches are hard on the eyes and winter seems to drag it through the needle holes like sardines are wrapped about and wonder if the sun got a burst from itâ€™s extra-marital dancing through the flash lights of a possum remark and stringing together edges of a new vista that are purchased on credit from the night depository seen the money on the door felt if pocket change the world it must be the evening as the maple blossoms are cut down and thrown into an arbitrary mix of sounds and wounds like tomb combs some dome man bought to fit into peopleâ€™s pockets after funerals and jangled them like Christmas fascism that nobody else thought would be marketable and even the solstice takers were enamored of the salt left to wither away at the idle hands of an angry fisherman who dreamt of a middle isolation in his hammock tied to two street lights burning out on Sunday afternoons like two teenagers with no money for nachos and in this carnival he bought his mother a two ton feather
'At The Socialist Fund-Raiser' This litany of morbid love songs were gestures at an empty midnight. There were never any radio heroes: just electronic detonations and ads for free chips and guac. at a local trapper keeper funding old menâ€™s eyes towards my friends. In all the after parties in all the world, the structure of lobotomist precision was a ghost on rosebud parades. They were tired of getting votes out and having mouths sealed over in electrical tape as thanks for volunteerism. A parking lot job has wasting affects through the central drains. For the midnight mass, they detuned their organ.
'Shakespeare Through the Everglades' The Grass was trimmed & smoked. She came out to talk for about an hour, her door gently closed. Two corporations were at war and she'd been caught in the crossfire. The daily cancer drives were enough to keep her hands juggled. My pioneer heart dragged about the Stones and all the street lights came on as the bicycles piled up in the yards around us. We talked until dawn and put the chain
back on before the morning papers coasted through the dewy blades.
'Untitled Because I Shouldn't Have To Make One Up For You' Whatever this is, it's flammable: she told on me she banged on me and blamed the servants for serving valium at 2 a.m. mass given in honor of muzzle kissersâ€™ blue lips: her murder was a petticoat disease spilling darkrooms into bathroom stalls. She had burned the mail and seasoned her sexless legs with delirious intents and, lacking all attention to detail, her tâ€™s were crossed with angry hypodermics the way barbers filter light through tambourines. We were awaken to burning mandrills on the front lawn tied to mahogany stakes.
'Those Cute Teeth' These are my defensive wounds: two stray pen marks on the side of a blank page. There were forty feet of barbed wire around his index finger, prickling towards the dawn in a fever show. Sickening waffle runoff, a panicked linesman burying strangers in the auspices of snow. Too many times have the rain clouds burned with a sulfuric lust, two lovers a rock. The distance between my fingers is growing as they animatronically rape my eyelids producing heavy waves of sheer light, a parade of film actors too poisoned to sing beneath the dirty edges of glass and
often tilted towards foreign bodies. They pray in funereal poses wishing the dew had settled in early
or after. We were broken and antimatter.
'Without the Drowning' At where eyes won't stay open. Dirt begets a terror war. All these drops of gold are cancerous blankets, too many of which have ended up on the floor in piles of untouched nervousness. There's a disease of the smells: it blinds the reader into believing in a two ton baseball bat shaped like Hitler's arthritic knee joints. He hoists and calls for the clearing monopoly. Sections of a brain make up the average parts of a day spent masturbating and a turning on for a healthy dose of radiation. This sickness if degenerative is probably why you can't taste the sunrise against
the windy scales all around the bay. Such reason is used only in dark species of fish and never in cholesterol commercials that spin off into "doing something about diabetes" ads. Muzzled lesions are part of the average megaton waste droplet, spilling into the ravished area below the bed, which took the abuse in low dosages of pain killers. They used to be smashed and placed into drinks. Almeria, Spain. Dusk is dawn as day and I felt her slip beneath the ridges of self-hatred. My pioneer heart burns what most small nations in South America eat on a daily basis, and yet I have wheat thins in my coffee, no matter what the savage manners of the bigot marlins say. Whatever you can say about anorexia, say this: my taste buds are happier and my shirts
are fitting like they've never fit before, especially on the lumpy parts. They are tracer rounds built up in the mind. I get the news I need in bodies tallied. It's only different when I close my eyes. The lights abuszzwhen I close my eyesI can stare and the world around me does not change but the imageis in my mind are new and wild and Iâ€™m listening I feel like I felt like I did when I was a child and I would close my eyes and rub
'Versus' Those wards were animation digests, spilt into fingerprints visible in ink. Spitting is another kind of protestation; whistled a sardine dreams of a desertion print. Rolling about, the splotches were disguised as soap stains.
'The Dummy Guitar' I've stopped breathing on my own, the next lip. In the valley quickly, over-looking the bright halls. The pastures are the solitude that weakness sees. This is an affirmation of plate movements where rain slips through the tourniquet. She rained all day and the rest had to be shaken off the feathered hands. She spotted an over coat in summer and wore it. The tarry fingers rubbed against the direction of eyebrows, a wracked pulse of teeth broken by the false alarm. Marigolds fit the pockets of a sardine left out on the counter, excluded from the meals that surgeons allow. If you knew everything, we'd be known by now. Drenched, my fingers were renewed desires for plastic wrap, a way of saying "complex", especially in the springtime. Each millimeter projected on the side of a barn is a spitting image of a bathrobe. Excuses trigger subpoenas and baskets. Suddenly, what was perverted is a rain check and
enough. Eyes rubbed as house lights awaken the sleeping auteur. They made it for the name recognition. The gathering before going to a movie.
Amish Trivedi has been in exile in Iowa City, where he waits for news on MFA programs. His poems have been in La Petite Zine and are forth coming in Cannibal and RealPoetik. The Trivedi Chronicles (http://www.amishtrivedi.com) are awaiting touchdown.
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