First
work within
the
world. Premium
coverage
for pajamas
toddling
wakely from
new
rooms. First
dead
black man in
America.
Costs to
bleed.
That I could end
this
featureless bounty
with
my pen. Alma’s
bright
O each morning
at
the bells. That tenderness
this.
That tenderness
wins.
Intimate air at
first
work in the bowels
beside
books. Call
the
work of your dreams
to
your dreams. Wretched
Earth
below trees. Songs
where
they question
after
termination. The day
ceases.
One last disclaimer:
the
information provided.
Great
granite walls for
histories.
Open season.
First
work within
the
world. Imminent
teeters—tomorrow
&
tomorrow. What
withers
low income
land,
one point about
industry.
What I know
what
I been through.
Splice
figures: bhangra
feels
pain to get rich. Sonia,
moved,
keeps whispering
her
hurts—stupid, stupid.
Sun
daughters once &
then
again—how empty
fists
where diamonds
were.
Hmm. Alma takes
a
header at the market
&
bears new braille
on
her growing skin.
Forward
lisps standing
at
the window small
shoulders
at morning
branching
to smaller
trees
smaller still. We
rockin
stilettos ho. So
so
so.
First
work within
the world. Body of
the world. Body of
clouds
pressuring
moisture
to thinning
skin.
Humming power
lines
streets & blonde
as
my girls the wishes
effervesce
toward
imagined
brunches. So
little
wilts. Humming
coastal
tunes morning
&
what I love. What I
love.
Sonia explains
that
her sleeveless nightie
has
long sleeves & these
words
leave me sleepless
in
LA like a movie set
with
the labor gone home
&
the morning cawing
like
hungry painted crows.
O
tomorrow & again
Alma
curls her head against
my
groin where Kate jokes
she
can’t go home
she
can’t go home
when
it’s her body &
the
body she grew.
First
work within
the
world. Etch coverage
in
freeway clovers:
signal
tower to life
guard
reds between
shutters
& humid
beach.
Sonia digs &
preens,
new outfits
for
each season
of
the AM. Language
where
we start
in
the night: retching
sounds
in the tin
of
monitored air.
The
slag of vomit
like
a city on the sheets,
with
peaks of what’s
hip
oozing over scars.
How
the stars love cars.
How
the clouds repent,
washing
asphalt for us
so
the smell of tomorrow—
while
Alma wags her finger
no, awwright—will
twinkle
twinkle newly
as
our songs.
the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan
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