Sunday, February 26, 2006

Justin Marks

Passing Thought

The way a body plummets off
a balcony twelve floors to the marble
below, you, the unformed fragment
of something I was going to say,
blurred silent past me, not falling so much
as moving like a body through a crowd,
slow enough to notice, though
too quick to follow.

Nice to wonder for a moment what
you might have become.
                                               Exactly
what I’ve wanted to say the way
I’ve wanted to say it?
                                         Doubtful.
If I could ever bring such a thing
into being
                  surely it would crumble
under the pressure of its own weight.


These Days

I can’t escape feeling days are more
real now than before; my aims missing

their marks, disappointment being the heart
of what I have to cling to; my own version

not of newness necessarily,
but ongoing difficulty.

(Streets lined with new leaved trees
again.) The further along I go the greater

difficulties appear. Still, morning imparts
upon my body, my mind, the burdens of waking.


Justin Marks has poems in, or forthcoming from, Fulcrum, The Literary Review, Typo, Black Warrior Review, McSweeney’s, Word For / Word, Kulture Vulture, and others. His chapbook, You Being You by Proxy, is out on Kitchen Press. He is Editor of LIT magazine and lives in New York City.

Monday, February 20, 2006

MTC Cronin

Inevitability.

Everything fails.
So why bother calling it that.
It doesn't distinguish anything.
Why bother when everyone bothers.
Except for a few.
They succeed in failing before the rest.
(They know what to call it.
(And don't bother doing so.))
Success is inevitable.


MTC Cronin lives in Maleny, Australia, with her partner and three children. She has two new books of poetry forthcoming soon.

Sunday, February 12, 2006

Caroline Conway

Hold Me Closer, Tony Danza

I can’t reach my feet now that I’ve planted so many stars. Close the door. Here, there is only inside. Multiply the lights, let my flesh form a fresh screen. Somewhere the father’s drinking a thin song. The mother’s heart is barred. I’ll eat your pixel dust while the dial clicks. No one’s the boss of these cold cells shown through snow. Replace the sun—just substitute blue. The cathode ray—a year of days we’ll dance to. The test pattern holds a grid to fit the afternoon. It’s the tune I hate, the forced embrace. Why not say what didn’t happen? Speak your truth untrue. The heart is just a thought. A holder of creases. Dip down low, here’s my head.


Caroline Conway lives & works in New York City.

Monday, February 06, 2006

Amy King

The Evolution Will Be Syndicated

Remember, I'm a member & the smile
and shake of your head doll do
all the things you ply them to
wilting in wait, the wallflower broke
my pace running home with a plastic excuse
I had planted in this tiny wine bottle
journey of red then maudlin vignettes
against an apotheosis of genius, not
entropy truffles. Who was the address?
That statement could be called
a marginal border or a boarder
you never intended to let in. Said
barbarism is in the zone of encounter:
hello wayward Samaritan, lost lamb
of the high plains or lowest of Eve's
witch-like daughters, something
that homogenizes in favor
of the ones who holed up on hills
around the second world war or
others to come and hide amongst
the living. We wait, we hold, we pass
the breathing on, the nukes, the sturdy
details that retain a landscape, the satellite
feeds contingently related to how we see,
as in more generally, it belongs
to the conquest of the age in exploration
of enlightenment of exploitation even
of this enthusiasm for annals of a planet-
on-pause, minus book-length installments.
You should herald who you esteem
or idol as in a bipedal construct
for change, which belies a holier
need to excise this energy towards
muted investment more costly than
the attention deficit span our moment's
milieu provides and markets for, thus
the principle edit would be to slide
the knob off while the remaining
message gets halfway truncated.


The Importance of Omission

& me, grateful for a cracking
creaking stool, holding
a woman's back
a chair away in tight black
shirt, her waist, a simple sweep
of question angle,
aromatic slant one
can almost fondle.

In this room, it is the female
form that people worship & wish
to be blessed with.
The shapes of a warm bread loaf,
garden cucumber, and cup
of absinthe sketched
together become a human
draped arm with shading.

How long have I known
within an elbow's bend, the
kernel of her name would warm
with heavy suggestion?
My arm remains by my side.


Amy King lives in New York. She is the author of Antidotes for an alibi (Blazevox) and the forthcoming chapbook Gertrude for girls (Coconut chapbooks).