Tuesday poem #404 : Kimberly Alidio : I marry myself to a mountain tonight, the one I’m on

 

 

at the lit wood stove,
          I think of an elegant poet collected
in one of the O Books anthologies
          his cabin in the mountains, the play of mosquitos

remember to research the earthships
          Cid has duck terrine and babkas!
believe all the Subarus
          our cabin plumes, the farmer in his hot tub

near the frozen creek,
          a woman slipped
her tour group exclaimed
          several loud sightings

a fire for the painter, silver
          smith, seller of blue
corn fry bread
          plank bridges, hay for a dog bed

acequia irrigated by orphaned brothers
          broken into sweats, sinews
acreage stilled
          all the artists humor before the wars

a few degrees down
          the round valley, few in plena
robust with pats of butter
          a milagro leg, amazonite, slipknots

striated white smoke,
          alpine glow? no, alpenglow
my wood fire readied for going out
          whole kindling in innocent positions

8 January 2020
          Title from Alan Davies

 

 

Kimberly Alidio is the author of why letter ellipses (selva oscura), : once teeth bones coral : (Belladonna*), a cell of falls (Portable Press at Yo-Yo Labs),  after projects the resound (Black Radish), and solitude being alien (dancing girl press). Her prose on poetics, memory, historiography, and postcolonialism has appeared or will appear in Harriet, Woodland Pattern Blog, Poetry Northwest, Social Text, American Quarterly, and the essay collection, Filipino Studies: Palimpsests of Nation and Diaspora.

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan

Tuesday poem #403 : Jake Byrne : THE HEART OF THE TOURIST IS EMPTY

 

I

To travel the world inside your own dumbass skull
And not disturb a single neuron in it
As last looks go you could do worse
Than a tower of flame

II

The sky is mouldy peach.
I am drawn to this evil pier...
Lignified steps
Wet with stinking dulse
You have your instructions.
Meet me at the gate where air meets water
Self-destruct after reading
Break only hearts take only photographs

III

Men are beasts! always
Pissing on the seat always
Shouting always slackjawed always
Stuffing their cocks
In your mouth

IV

I see the girls walk by dressed in their summer colds. 

V

Lightning strikes the greenhouse
Again and again I experience
Sensation x
And x engenders pain in the world
Therefore I engender pain:
A bolt from the blues

VI

Magic is happening here
My good bitch
He follows me up to the ersatz waterfall
Ass testing the seams of his twill pants
I want so badly for our bodies to communicate
A spirit tricks me into the eastern grotto

VIII

In the kitchen hot milk
Hits boiled ginger juice
Curdles into skin
A barrier that air cannot traverse

IX

One perfect white specimen left on a bush
Of rotting roses
A beetle hidden in it
The heart of the tourist is empty

X

Crackle of fish skin
It is time to throw another thing on the fire
A man vomits into a dumpster
Wipes his mouth
Cheers
The dumpster cheers too!

XI

The rose garden is a misnomer.

XII

Still pool
Surrounding a rose garden of your own
Carefully manicured
Hybridized
Reflection
Repose
Branding
Solitude
Delusion
Ad nauseam

XIII

Hot ginger milk
Curdling on my face

 

 

Jake Byrne is a queer writer. His poem “Parallel Volumes” won CV2’s Young Buck Poetry Prize for 2019. His work has appeared in Bat City Review, PRISM international, Lambda Literary’s Poetry Spotlight, The Puritan, and The Fiddlehead, among others. His first chapbook, The Tide, was published by Rahila’s Ghost Press in 2017. He is a settler based in Tkaronto, on the traditional meeting places of the nations of the Huron-Wendat, the Seneca, the Haudenosaunee, and the Missisaugas of the Credit River.

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan

 

Tuesday poem #402 : Emma Tilley : GET A REAL JOB

 

I’m sorry I couldn’t hear you over the sound of my mortgage and my RRSP. Working twenty hours a week doesn’t count for anything unless you tack another twenty on there. Don’t forget overtime. That paycheque you earn cleaning toilets and restocking shelves can only be cashed out for Monopoly money. Do you want to build an empire out of tiny plastic houses or are you going to save up for 1/10^th of a house on a postage stamp in Vancouver? It’s your life, but if you want my advice this is what I would do. Walk into that job interview wearing your graduation gown, bite down on the celebratory medal until your teeth crack. Don’t worry – this job will have health, dental, AND benefits so you can fix yourself to your heart’s content.

 

 

 

 

 

Emma Tilley’s writing has been published in Popshot Magazine, The Anti-Languorous Project, EVENT, and Poetry is Dead. Her debut chapbook Carp Dime was published by Rahila’s Ghost Press in 2019.

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan.