Jacobin
We are not extremists. We are not
Adherents of slipslop. As a matter of fact
There is no matter to our facts, only fear
For the slack rescue attempt, the saving grace
That scissors our faces from the painting
While leaving clouds, sea, and apple frame.
Most evenings, we sit on the front porch
To watch the semi-colons roar down
The expressway. Our green screens are so
Wide-ranging you cannot escape
Our ogre. On full-moon winter nights
We like to take the beast out to scent
That curve, where the hapless nouns pile up.
Grab that tuba; air this balloon; lose your head
To cherry cobbler; Main Street is so long,
Sucker, you can’t evade our parades!
Psalms from the Dewey Decimal System: 1930-1939
I’m on the inside peering in
~
When you remove your spectacles
I can’t see you
~
In the water it takes a great effort
To go nowhere
In the air, not so much
~
Soft rays, the babies we bore
~
I don't really know you, though
I've come into
Contact with you in various
Card catalogues
~
When you remove your books
I can’t see
~
Let me live, anon, let me
Never escape
~
I’m on the inside looking
~
I've come into acquaintance
With you
In various hotel rooms
In the air
Not so much
~
Travelers are buoyant
~
The fix of emollients to
A diseased limb
~
Out a window, watch the snow
Reek distance
~
When hegemony becomes
A prayer
Print the application
~
X-rays reveal old beauty
~
Psalms are messages on paper
Ships, placed
In a plastic bottles
~
I’m gigantic, it’s the screens
That got small
~
I live semi-permanently
In a hostel
~
Anonymous, I love you, anonymous
~
Uncork the bottle, fish out
The ship
Pull up the covers (flashlight)
Read away
~
The application of emollients
To a lamb
~
I’m on the inside
~
When you remove your numbers
I can’t
Speak
The first word is the best word. You’ll never phoneme like that, again.
There’s virtue and joy when you just don’t know what you’re saying.
Every word after your first word is business.
I’m not going to tell you your first word.
No.
I don’t wish to change our whole dynamic.
What to Take on an Ark
Zip lock bags, duct tape, two bathing suits, hi-lighter pens (to hi-light activities on the ship in the newsletter), panama hat and baseball cap, deodorant, rope, nail clippers, collapsible water bottles, binoculars, driver’s license, extra pair of reading glasses, white gloves, fungicide and Crichton, bird feed, sandals (and flip-flops?), prophylactics, hand sanitizer, phone card, cufflinks, flash cards, waterproof watch, passport, casuals, list of medications, chargeable batteries, shower cap, tranquilizer rifle, lavender oil, room freshener, two belts, kibble, medications, rubber bones, PDA, insulated cup holders, deck shoes, pajamas (silk & cotton), kimono, maps, laptop, power bars, dove call, slippers, two sweaters, tuxedo, hair dryer, underwater camera solar-powered calculator (for reckoning tips), compression socks, portable DVD player, two mucking shovels, workout clothes, noise canceling headphones, CDs (soothing music), prescription sunglasses, raincoat with hood, sunblock, Capri pants, global positioning device, white bucks and two cell phones. 
Peter Jay Shippy’s third book is How to Build the Ghost in Your Attic (Rose Metal Press), a novel-in-verse. New work appeared in The American Poetry Review, Cue, Harvard Review and Shenandoah, among others. Shippy received a 2007 artist grant in playwriting/new theater works from the Massachusetts Cultural Council. He teaches at Emerson College.
|
