We’re designing new men
cut to length
arbiter of luck
maker of stage
huge and triumphant
unable to remember or feel
men made out of iron
men who whistle
and club words off of pages
and the names out of children’s mouths
what luck with forgetting
the forgetting men
made new and bright
made out of everything you’d seen
from the lighthouse in Windsor and Bohemia
and older places
watching them move into the light and out of it
while you shouted their names
to see if they could move in time
find Robin here
Read more "ROBIN WYATT DUNN – NEW MEN"
This week Sapling talks with Jim Thompson, Cacti Fur. * Sapling: What should people know who may not be familiar with Cacti Fur? JT: We have an aesthetic and you do too. Sometimes ours match and it’s cool. Sapling: How did your name come about? JT: We are in Southern New Mexico where there is lots and lots […]
Read more "Sapling’s Recent Interview with Jim Thompson of Cacti Fur"
Trust this young pair of lips
professing what only
a page should learn
I’m a phdiddleedee
Full of lala
Inhaling your blahbla
I’ll be your puppet
if you suck it
I’m looking for
There’s no pill for you
The names of the body
parts you’re looking for
I need to do an independent study
I can keep a secret
are by appointment only
Today began with vaping
and ended with the professor
I’m property of the graduate department
Return if lost
Run if lost
Merry, merry Christmas!
Grad school is delicious
May experience loss of people
May experience loss of self
May experience loss of language
Unspeaking of language
No such end
No such thing
against your office wall
And it’s hard to swallow
with your brains in me
in your mouth
a blunt flinging attention
’til you cranberry
And it’s the lovefest of the year
Coming ’til we’re dust
Find Summer Qabazard online.
Read more "POETRY: Summer Qabazard – LEXAPRO"
Sulphur or Wood
It’s the first thing upon waking:
The outline of your loss
Like a bare sun in the morning trees.
Before you can even recall specifics
The longing hits you, cold and absolute.
Your own name, still lost in the dark
Of sleep, yet this feeling rising
Through your body
Like a rage or sickness.
It’s the kind of thing you feel
When you realize the best of days
Have passed before you, and you
Missed the music.
Regret so palpable, you can call it
Sulphur or wood.
The simplest of news holds no richness
Against the fiber of this grief.
It moves through your life
Until the world is full of ghosts
It burns for no other reason
Than for the love of ashes.
Something in you so quietly razed
That no one at the kitchen table
Can see the chilled fire
Eating at your eyes.
visit Seth Jani online
Read more "POETRY: SETH JANI – SULPHUR OR WOOD"
At The End Of The Affair
That it should end in an Albert Pick hotel
with the air conditioner gasping like a carp
and the bathroom tap plucking its one-string harp
and the sourmash bond half gone in the open bottle,
that it should end in this stubborn disarray
of stockings and car keys and suitcases,
all the unfoldings that came forth yesterday
now crammed back to overflow their spaces,
considering the hairsbreadth accident of touch
the nightcap leads to-how it protracts
the burst of colors, the sweetgrass of two tongues,
then turns the lock in Hilton or in Sheraton,
in Marriott or Holiday Inn for such
a man and woman-bearing in mind these facts,
better to break glass, sop with towels, tear
snapshots up, pour whiskey down the drain
than reach and tangle in the same old snare
saying the little lies again.
This poem appeared in the 1973 anthology Contemporary Poetry in America , edited by Miller Williams.
If you dig Maxine Kumin, check out her newly released memoir The Pawnbroker’s Daughter.
Submit your work to Cacti Fur.
Read more "POETRY: MAXINE KUMIN – AT THE END OF THE AFFAIR"
Water breaks for Terns and Petrels
diving to an unknown thing,
then up from water into air –
with no clumsy shaking or annoyance –
for them this is life and as easy as the atmosphere.
I saw a little grey sparrow land on a fence
when I arrived at a place I promised I’d be.
My car hummed,
and everything was humming,
and everything was noise.
We are just noise to everything.
Ahead, two crows pecked at grass, at seemingly nothing,
and feasted on worms and fleas
ignored. We toss simple things
away, we’ve thrown up
our hands to more food than could feed
countries full of children.
There is no flight enough to make us
comfortable with the animals we are.
There is nothing enough to make us the birds
we could be.
Submit your work to Cacti Fur: cactifur.com/submit
Read more "POETRY: Jessica Wiseman Lawrence – Birds"