Poem by Jane Joritz-Nakagawa

From LUNA

NOTE: Some words were taken from a poem published in Upstairs at Duroc in 2016 by Dylan Harris and from the book In June the Labyrinth by Cynthia Hogue


the ceiling fan spins angrily
in the drafty room

com promise
con test
con geal
comm and
comma nd
comi cal coma
car cinoma

ethnic cleansing
cyber bully
soul murder
naked clowns

figure head
port wine stain

the sound of voices shattering

common sonnet
momentary religion
eyelid corruption
tree revolutions
poetic sin
mangled fertility
sadistic blueprint
managing my PTSD

i put on your ashes
as if with a knife

i have come too close
and must now retreat

back into the wet grass
my whirlwind of delusions

the wind moves slowly over me
as if burning me

a Wilhelm scream
one has to grow one's sex
June at the gumshoe of chortles
it's a sound
the yen
all those tools
pray your attention span
axes the land you pulverized
get the net
to shovel the
world but if ever
the listless sun


inadvertent self-harm

phenomenological stoma

"a world of wounds"

methadone sludge

"surrounded by fear"

lazy pirouette

unbalance scale

hunch truth

fulcrum touch

accidental genital

entwined hours

walks away

peace display

glistening chores

moon journey

eloquent spine

colorless breasts

fearful maze

in summer

still waiting


mind demons
world fuck
garden midlife
embroidery women
envisioned tail
gloomy tale
(soon ends)

random deposits
fury ample
inevitable wave
final smile
chafed index
lonely laughter
collapsed hearts

vast despair
common baggage
dense dampness
immeasurable cloud
human pose
expanding solitude

eager notebook
inorganic flowering
restless strawberry
painful rain
schoolbook whispering
uncrossable river
banned trees

straw waltz
dome piano
lazy star
vast directives
miniature eruption
weakened prophecy
mass-produced sentiments
political highland
adhesive peep show

Poems by Jay Bond

MY FATHER’S CHEST OF DRAWERS

On my father’s chest of drawers
Stood a carved wooden chest
About the size of a tissue box
Sealed with a brass clasp
It opened to the scent of cedar
A comb, cufflinks, pen, a badge or two
Living quietly within

Each morning my father combed his hair
At the chest of drawers
Looking into the mirror above

And in that place again, each evening
He stood an extra moment
To stow away the surgeon’s day

At midnight, he’d adjust the window there
To let in air

Only now have I thought that this place
Was perhaps alone
In the house
A space that was only his.
I don’t know if he thought about it at all.

He’d look across the courtyard to my room and wave, sometimes
And always, even in bitter cold, ensure my window too was raised to let in air.

TREE

Of its DNA 

the tree is ever

a reliable narrator

Caught in its branches

the moon is never

a bright lantern

Always, the owl 

Hoots its own name aloud

Aglare, holding on, unswerving

To all the tree listens, allows an expansive architecture,

rings spreading out in silent dilations. Space holds the whole story together,

with a glint of a smile curving      on the hour, every hour      and the merest passing hum.

THE LEAVING

A Villanelle

Our world is departing    without leaving word

In lands without names there is nothing left to say

We’re running    out of words    to save the world

As we speak    the world is leaving    leaving as it turns

Without taking leave our world has turned away

Leaving forests    without songs    or singing birds

The trees are fading    tell the birds    tides have turned

All the words in the world   can’t save the day

Life is waning, our undoing    air forsakes the ancient ferns

Home has fled the scene, slammed the door.    Shadows burn.

The ways to save our lives have run away                 

Grass ungreens    light fades in falls    streams depart without return

Spinning skew    we watch the leaving    at the turning of day

Creation hangs     unknowing still     we fall apart    in space unstirred

Life is leaving    all our doing    at last closing    of the day

We have failed to save the words to turn the dying of the day

Poems by Naomi Buck Palagi

THIS MAY SAVE YOUR LIFE 

one this may save your life two this may save your life three this
may we not shudder
in inactivity, may we not
grind bones
while still raw, say instead we are walking
one step to next, fielding outrage and constants,
clambering mid stream to rocky tors and offering
drops
of each fine food, distilled liquor, dandelions.
go north, or deep, or with,
go
frequently
the sound of saw blade in the distance, and building,
we are building, pretend
we are not, pretend we gather
only
one step to the next, fielding outrage and constants, humming
birds and orchids and
the whole orchestra
coming up behind us.
this may save your life.
shuttered or not.


LIKE AN APOLOGY IT JUST KEEPS RAINING

the final paintings trip locks and driving gloves cold mustering. that chitterbox birding toward institution for favorite days and gold caps, one mouthful too many. sprinklers on. when one wanders willfully waking we are dog breath, cowbell. constant companions in cruises and paper fees, take me out.

no pain. lips all swollen. chest bruised from inside. swinging through trees and it’s about me again. go find a big lump don’t swallow. paining but looking outward, driving.

vague yard signs and strong cut topiary and already, no tracking. one city is not the same. horticulture and hydroponics squeezing what’s left of the water,

until it rains. trucks slipping, grabbing. goldfish in the cracks. it is not all

beyond control.


THE TRIPPY DREAMER
                   for Jeremy Pinc on his birthday

what up dogg! I just saw a thing, a sunset vibe, medium red figure setting wild ass, wild flower on setting sun. jeremiah smiles like the funny guy, ragusa bellolampo, siculi, prezzemolo! I just saw a soft face over easy, soft sunset wave, flower sunset people in the american night, the lemonade hangout, the study, fantasia study that desert thing. wild ass peanut butter and jelly cult Tuesday, 2pm. l’uomo farfalle the wild ass season study #2. black and white. gouache. gouache b. the camper likes smiles, stinky smiles like a loner’s holiday, like smoky gospel mountain, like huevos.

earth brother’s landscape and america further in like vibe, like totally, like study #5. installation view. funny guy mismatch in shoes the genealogy of sons, die, like a flower, like Tarquinius Etruria, like landscape, desert, lake.

wave festucaria over watermelon vibe, study psychedelic, nero, roccamena. roccamena! what up, mumford! study stupid gouache, benedict easy. $688.82 view bedda matri cuore study wave, easy. soft. wild watermelon like a flower, funny guy, study! study appearance, soft landscape, season the party. study study, further in.

gospel.


*composed entirely using words from titles of Jeremy’s artworks

THE GATHERING
                   for Mary Muldoon

Love, feel this earth, watch
these wriggling worms, laugh
and stomp the ground. For there is
pain, Love, and cruelty,
bullets, we may holler
and stomp the ground.
We get no apologies,
we haven’t changed it yet.
The lake ripples
on a holy day.
Hold my hand, Love,
you haven’t left me yet.
Take my hand, we needn’t speak
of it, we shall gather
mayflowers on the shaded path.
I haven’t left you, Love, yet, and never,
take off your shoes, stomp
barefoot on the ground.
Move earth, shake
smooth waters into waves
on this holy day.
Don’t say that we are sorry,
we won’t live that way.

Take my hand, Love,
the waters laugh for us.


*Poem inspired by four poems: “Sunday Morning” and “The Outing,” by Mary Muldoon, “For colored girls who have considered suicide/ when the rainbow is enough,” by Ntozake Shange, “Catalog of Gratitudes” by Ross Gay