Low Log: poetry

Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts

8/16/2011

First thing in the morning, I shave

by Matt Zingg

Let me start with this: a blind vulture
on the deadest of trees, a line of ants,
a baby rabbit like a wad of tissue
paper, a thin layer of flesh and the sky
underneath it all. Talking is a clump
of red dirt in a severed hand. Wait.

Let me steal this picture: my days
are orchid petals floating down
a river and at night, only the sound
of conspiring. This does not
belong to me. No matter. Cut the trees
close to the earth. Dam the river.

Close the earth, dam the rivers,
belong to me. No matter, cut the trees
of conspiring. This is not
a river at night, only the sound
of orchid petals floating down.
Let me steal this picture: my days

are red dirt in a severed hand. Wait.
Underneath it all, talking is a clump
of paper, a thin layer of flesh and sky,
a baby rabbit like a wad of tissue,
on the deadest of trees, a line of ants.
Let me start with this: a blind vulture.

the homie

by Zach Baker

sonic was an australian shepherd.
a herding dog, a shepherding dog.
they were all shepherding dogs at first, i guess.
before that, wolves.
but we had similar hunting methods, and traveled in packs.
so eventually the two species
—man and dog—
were like: “yo
you scratch my back, and I’ll scratch yours.
let’s go hunting and we’ll all stay fed.”

that was backintheday. a lot has changed.
sonic was a child of the ‘90s, piece of shit hunter
but a nice guy. good guy. great friend.
it was a youngest sibling kind of thing—
you just want the best for him.

then he had this growth.
hell of a growth, grapefruit-sized.
then it was like,
“what you want? you want me to kill your friend?
or chop off his leg?”
my sonic’s growth was on his leg.

and it was like, “damn.
if it was me, would I want my leg off?
or my head off?”

and it was like, “hey man:
dogs are different.
they got 3 more. they adapt.
dogs are different.”

dogs rarely make it to the age of consent.
he was only 11.
if it was my sister, it would have been a different story.
a dog is a dog.

so it was like, “alright man,
yeah, take his leg man,
yeah,
take his leg.”

...and Multiply

by David Winter

“He said: ‘Take now thy son, thine only son, whom thou lovest, even Isaac, and get thee into the land of Moriah; and offer him there for a burnt-offering upon one of the mountains which I will tell thee of.’”
-Genesis 22:2

As a father, consider the instruction.
Dream this growth of being, spoken
as castration, as deadened manhood’s
final, unexpected flower, kerosened.

Hear the built trust in the boy’s voice,
the pride he takes in bearing wood.
The smell of wool on his small hand,
of sweat slicking a rope. You know

even before this burning, how smoke
excites the nostrils, how knees need
the Earth to touch them. You know
the crimson of a creature giving life

to a just God, the prayers sung
by fearful throats of man and son.
The knife prepared above his neck
shears each of your boy’s prayers.

Walk down the mountain together,
eyes touching Earth, smoke hanging
in crimson wool, your boy no longer
bent by firewood’s weight. Your boy,

no longer.

Introductions

by David Winter

When I meet a voice carving
masks I forbid that voice to leave
this book. When I meet my voice dressed
up for a disappointing night
when a mite crawls
into a forgotten megaphone, listening.
When I meet speaking out
of turn a voice who breathes best
by match-light. When I meet a measured
silence my voice peels daylight
from beneath her fingernails.

When I meet my voice I listen
to someone else's.

When I meet my voice,
a lost dog.

When I bark.

When I plead
from the knees
of a whale.

When I rummage
through the bones
of a star.

When I meet my voice at a funeral
I did not attend.

My voice who plucks out
three
tongues,
voice who returns to another's
prison, voice who resents the eye
of the undertaker, voice who does not speak
to me, if I un-strangle you
who
will breathe with me?

INRI

by Mike Lala

A name is something
     you can’t crawl out
from under.

It binds you
     to yourself.

Is that what
     Christ felt
in the garden?

Did his cup
     say this
Is your blood?

“I am
     what you say
I am.”

That was his
     moment of Truth.

A name is something
     you can’t crawl out
from under.

It is nailed above you
     until someone
lets you down.

Michael Lala grew up mostly in the western United States and Tokyo, and studied writing in Michigan. He currently lives and curates the critically acclaimed, seasonal reading series Fireside Follies in Bushwick, Brooklyn, and is assembling a forthcoming volume of poems for Knickerbocker Circus Publishing. His work has appeared in the Red Cedar Review, The Offbeat, and elsewhere, and his collaborative photo project with Katelan Foisy, Lie & Indite, can be viewed at lieandindite.tumblr.com. He can be reached at lalamichael@gmail.com.

General Electric

by Brian Correia

Lately, the rattle of my fridge has been keeping me awake.

Where I live I have to bring my own fridge
or rent one. You know
the kind with a microwave attached.
I have a tube TV.

I was prepared for a year of warm beer,
for doggie bags with early expiration dates.
“Sell by twenty-four hours after the meal.”
But Aaron, he lent me his fridge.

For two weeks I slept soundly
before it reared its ugly head. Bad vibrations.
Did I put it in the wrong spot?
Did I stick it with the wrong magnet?

I've removed, from its top, everything:
The clock radio, the plastic containers.
The clock radio still goes off.
The cold cuts still are cold.

The fridge rattles.
I put it at the foot of my bed.
In the middle of the night
I give it a kick.
Sometimes that does the job.

1923

by Claudia Acevedo

he sits on a piece of wood
cracked as toenails
protruding, yellow glances of the Depression still in his cup,
which reeked of cranberries and vodka.
when I woke on Monday morning
his hands were copper and full
with grapefruits and melons he bought from his friend the domino player
and the Oldsmobile would ride proudly, coughing,
to school with me pressed and clad in blue polyester.
the hand wave sneaking through the car window
said so much about the brown in my eyes
and the sunflowers that grew in his garden.

How to Make Mistakes

by David Winter

Don't do it the way you did
the last time. Inspect each bone
holding you upright. Remove
the most shapely one. Notice
its absence from your body
as you dance. Don't do what
you did before you were born.
No number of warm assurances
will protect you from sharp joy
or its precursor, a shadow
whose touch tints your cheeks
scarlet. Don't do it the way
you were told more than once.
Trust in your oracular organs,
so often silenced by facts.
Don't do it as these words
instruct. They are the silt
of a lived river, unheard
proverbs worn hollow by use,
a careful composition sung
in entirely the wrong key.

Tulips

by William Cody Watson

Download - Tulips

untitled, 2009
I’m thinking of ways to dismantle my brain
and I’m thinking I might just puke on your grave.

First Response

by India Nicholas

My girlfriend has a copper hook inside her.
It is a tiny, T-shaped thing. Perfect to hold a writhing worm,
an inch of flesh pieced by metal. This thing would bob in Lake Oswego,
shining, glittering, ready to be nibbled by fish that sparkle with rainbow skin.

But my girlfriend does not use her copper hook to catch me
or any other scaled swimmer. Her small tool sits afloat in her belly, sends repellent,
a radar of warning. Her copper hook is a fence around the lake.
My bloated fish are not allowed to swim there.

I wonder if it rusts, her copper hook jewelry.
Will it turn that aquamarine green? I wonder, does it pollute?
Will it stain her insides? Will that color seep through her skin?
I would like to have a blue girlfriend.

Bechamel

by Hadar Ahuvia

The Jutland Peninsula has taken her in,

my cousin—

like they sheltered Judens during the third reich reign.

She can marry there,

but not on holy terrain

because her mom’s not kosher/

She returns to celebrate Christmas on the kibbutz—not kosher,

where I pocketed rabbits— not kosher—

and ate bacon for dinner with cream— not kosher—

or my aunt who fed it—

my Dane dame—not kosher— who exclaimed

“Your tush is flowering with jubilation!”

as I lay frogstyle— not kosher—

on the tile.

My cousins’ son, named Yonatan,

suckles her cheek and teat.

He puckers— an ingathering of lip pleats

a kibbutz of sorts—

the family’s scatter and flock

kibbutz round pagan lights

kibbutz for soldiers on leave

micro kibbutz on cells and skype

kibbutz on Shabbat

kibbutz parking lot

Yonatan was born off the kibbutz.

like me raised by a daughter of the/ away from the/

who’s parents live on the/

that is no longer really a/

My mom’s lips never converged on teats

but rather bottles of fresh cows milk

quickly scattering in refusal

of fatty alien goods.

I disaffect her-like

Fuck lite.

Gimme more filllin. More skin. more pepper grindin.

More chew.

More melt.

I’ll butter the skillet

loosen my belt

ladle and lip grip

taut sacrament

relinquish the bet

drop Hannukah gelt

affix ‘il’ to Lent/

and reminisce of schnitzel corn and rice—delight

Persons of every generation must view themselves as having been

individually freed from the land of Egypt

After the Pageant

the dining hall

has dissembled dismembered

every generation individuated itself, to free(ify) itself

Egypt melts in a cast iron pan/

the fingers of my hand kibbutz to gesture wait

as of late

soldiers kibbutz on Gaza.

while we—like milk and butter—

cream.

Step Down

by Allyson Paty

Too many in the post office line. Each one

clutches his parcel and his woe is me.

Think, of course, of the stove, the lamp.

Go outside if the rain peters out or sleep

when the construction quiets down.

After the morning glories closed

you gripped the chicken wire just in case

the wind came to rattle you away with

the seedpods. Just maybe the stove,

your blackened kitchen. At the grocery store

the loaf goes stale before you can buy it.

A man behind you spit shines his child

when she squirms herself to tears.

Stand straight and stay still. The light

gaping out at the empty room.

Innuendo

by Hadar Ahuvia

soft palate craving

not souffle
or soft spells

softballs come near
sweaters may solace

/
sweater vest
turtle neck
mothball
hardball

spit
slant pitch

/
cross county parkway
Bronx river parkway
soft smelt playway
go local trainway
faster flit
expressway

sprain brook parkway
swallow circle/drive

Two Alleluias

by Allyson Paty

The thefts had been small: last milk from the carton,
a moment, a glance, the buttons from my dress.

We sat where you gutted the fish, the house dark,
and our suitcase zippers glared back at the sun.

Passengers emptied onto the street the way doctrine
charges from the apse. A bus hissed, whimpered, and

lurched away. Your watch ticks out on the nightstand
until the little black beetles overcome the flour.

The gifts were also small: a bistro matchbox, a touch,
a shiver, a clover dried and pressed in the middle of a hymnal.

The cat would not stop licking her haunch. I, too,
sweltered in my fur.

Franks

by Ida Griesemer

She could be grumpy, Mrs. Franks.
Her hair was a gray helmut that she wore
inside, but I don't forget the sparkle
in her eye. The year they filled

Her lab with colored globes.
Those artifacts of the first person.

Something must have happened
to the computer-makers.
Some giddy delight in their own
clairvoyance. That made them want

To turn every typing tank into a toy
store. We can do this, they said, know-how
spilling over. We'll make these machines
from inflatable air chairs. We'll put our lips

To the power cord and exhale. They're gonna
blow up. Franks will go nuts. We'll have every
gray hair standing when she reclines
on this furniture. We've been to the future

And we're bringing back lava lamps.
Maybe it was the transparency
that did it for her. Was that it?

She could see right to the guts
of those cheerful medicine balls.

Mario claimed he could teach us typing
but she had ideas about why he couldn't.
The boats were better, she said.
She made us row for our words.

Oh, Mrs. Franks. Some days she was tired.
Some days all she could do was list
everything we didn't know
on the whiteboard. Some days we were rats

And she was a lone scientist.
She was a mechanic.

She taught us about engines, she led the
search. What did we know about spelunking?
Rowing was one thing, but…

I want to tell her,
thanks. I met Google through her.
After class - an accidental facial
expression, a look of interest -

I stumbled into a private lesson.
There are many, she said, But this
is the one I like. A plain page. A baby
name. Another psychic nerd

Playing a joke on the world. Goo
googaga from the mouth of a grown
woman. Eyes really lit this time, drool
clinging to the strap of her helmut.

Thank you, thank you, Mrs. Franks. It was
an important thing for me to know
it turns out.

howler

by Ariella Ruth

howler dear
it could be wilt
metal that hangs
in center beats

that aren’t purple but harm
small hairs on insides
of your ears never

can be bent up straight
again the flowers

turn south to face
browning water open
their small mouths
to cherry wood i bought

you because no one
would

not buy
you i mean but give
to me it snows

on you the hills
on dullness beat
drums
howler beat
my ear
drums

The Nighttime Stomach

by Molly Goldman

When he falls asleep I know it’s because he’s lying
   on the boring side of my face.

I don’t sleep. I crouch inside of myself
   and talk gently to the dog that looks like Lassie

who lives in the nighttime stomach.
   Her head is tilted sideways like it’s missing

a stitch. What is it, Girl? I follow her
   through the wet newspaper tunnel of my intestines.

Someone could be trapped in there.
  Is it trouble at the well?

My impulses move like iridescent fruit flies
   against a stain glass backdrop. It’s like I’m trespassing

through some hollow church and flinching
   at the echo of my footsteps. The stomach

is a jar glowing with swarms of red
   candles. Lassie leads me

to a familiar chalkboard in there. Last night,
   I stayed late and wrote believe me,

believe me, two hundred times. When the words
   are erased I can use the dust to dry everything up.

On the outside, a toothbrush lies
   down in the medicine cabinet. A drawer hangs

open like a child peering over a bridge.
   The stairs stack themselves in darkness.

and growing

by Ariella Ruth

8:36 pm mountain time

it’s time for something rhythmic and pointed. i recently heard that you could tell if a mountain is young or old based on the roundness of the top. so what i’d say is, from where i’m standing, we’re just blue turning wheels waiting for eastern weather. the train fogs and it’s just like the downtown station, but there are no crickets. my finger moves letters in air. i would kill every cricket in the world just to hear my dog breathing next to me on the kitchen floor. i could go the whole rest of my life without hearing a loon and it wouldn’t make any difference. they’re all werewolves to me anyways. a beak, yellow with ravaged fur. barefoot on green carpet all i can hear is the floor. she shuffles and breathes. the air is heavy and she’s on the porch involuntarily. has anyone stayed anywhere? to put numbers on you would be to count away my moments and bring us closer to shrouded thoughts. i crave to make a tunnel through a crowd. i’m sick of people telling me what to do with my FEET! where’s the carriage and pavement? i’ll ride slanted in the sun. the cricket outside my window thinks he’s a jester. this city-town is bizarre, hollow and wide. several times throughout the day i have to remind myself of my location. i need something in arms and ties and chairs and neck veins and neck veins and blue veins that only show at night. tired only above the neck. cuticles turned in dryness and heat and a falsely drawn mouth. no it’s not at all acceptable to assume that anyone wants to pay for your opera. the wrinkles don’t fall from being hung. humid, please go like sage to each corner of this room, in shelves and drawers and closets. in salem, he said “please remove any negative energy from this space and replace it with our most positive energy.” nights are ripe they are somehow still the hardest. it’s nice to meet you. are you my second child, are you? no one can eat eleven peaches in seven days. produce me. i see a pattern for vegetable fingers. maybe these leaves will wake up my hands. i could flip around on you until civil twilight and still not know a word. “she likes to travel around, she’ll love you and she’ll push you down.” “by all accounts it shouldn’t last long.” heart words with no body.

Untitled

by Kate Wood

when i see the word
iPad
i feel embarrassed
like folding my dadʼs underwear for the ﬁrst time

Thanks America!

by Joshua Abelow

Where am I?
Everybody is so nice
And mindless and fat
And dead.
Oh, that's right! I'm in
America.
I almost forgot. It's hard
To keep track when
You live out of your
Suitcase.
Well, Here I am.
God Bless America!
If it weren't for all these
Nice, mindless, fat, dead people
I'd be so confused.

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