|
|
The Message
is the Message Christ, yes, my voodoo organism crackles 3 ways fuels that into formal glories turn. Sin-dazzled aquamen span an open ocean range sailors take for waxworks of land & gimcrackery cast out by He who unseats sawdust Caesars. For who slouches after our social smoke, knocks up the skylark but those hosts of lords? & how safe is it to call sarx a storm & not fire the closer Truth gets to Her Mars & its 8 angstroms of care? Light will do our eyes with the sex of Itself— a half-tone skin-trick looped into the pyx fish- and loafless until Athens fell: Christ- fallen, yes; obeah-man’s Amen!
Seizure’s reason! 5 fates away from a new phylum! * The 8th Intention of St.
Bangled-Banner “That’s
the anthem— get
your damn hands up!” —Jay-Z What-not, bee-boned devils shake more than okay & no amount’a wow-how’s gonna get’cha outta this sing. This here’s West Outer Space, girl, where we keep liars up-wind & stay-safe powers sugar-cane gossips take for revelation end-spooked & covered in love. The devils juice this town into great-scotts & minister tricks which sermon us up moons we pray “Live!” to. It’s never up to you what we warm into— break this down: Gotta low-down blow-smoke engine 3 clicks from conclusion; our nation goes when we don’t keep the right speeches. Check it. When you’re outta that evil, It say, I gotta’nuther evil for ya. for
Matthias and Amy * On
Anything of Skin I soak the twine in squids’ ink to design
a way into the wave the whale’s weave then tie the flags & coil the line to times I count from deck, black crest, black break,
believe the beach’s waves have grammar & intent the way that catscans clarify the mind & show the places colored with invent— it’s there
she thinks of how our skins combine. I’ve lined the ink-sacs up. Black bullet flesh of fish I rub to energize the twine to conduct down what sinks, but what sinks less than information, hands, the blue that’s mine: the minimal amount of my content * Choice
Shapes Result
By time it takes to coil from bird to
bird
mythic rites exile to sleep the spider; lulled like itself, concealed, the ship returned with cords of spice & thirteen coral dangers. “We cannot verify what we believe” “The Empress of the Splendid Eats Her Hair” “A hundred lands have harbored theories” “You
endows her human. Lineland is there” where porcelain is heaven China clutches— its deepest purpose suddenly becomes— at such-and-such begetting such a such. What’s understood as “spider” asks to hum: magic at one time, & then religions; monopolize the snake, the worlds begin. **
Committee on the History of Culture. His poetry and reviews have
appeared or are forthcoming in GutCult, Near South, Ploughshares,
Bathhouse, 1913: A Journal of Forms, Denver Quarterly, Salt Hill, Skanky Possum,
Notre Dame Review, New American Writing, McSweeney’s, Interim and other journals. He
is also the poetry editor for the Chicago Review and editor of Beard of Bees Press.
Archived
at http://lit.konundrum.com/poetry/elshtain_poems.htm |
