Ticket to Ride
Past is where I live now,
when eternally the earth
moves like ginger within
her without her, & she
picked up/left town &
she was wearing a jumper
& golden earrings & a
blouse over a blouse &
a pom-pom hat for cold
weather & I remember
being together & her head,
its imprint, lingers like a
fossil shell, & I am ancient.
I've Just Seen a Face
I can't forget it: pressed
up against the window
of the Pine St Starbucks,
it seemed to open up a
world, self-sufficient, in
which I fall through ten
hoops, each a finger, &
then am free to loosen
what binds me to come.
Help!
When I was younger I
thought I knew about
what is was to be free.
Free was green smoke.
Free was sheets stirred.
Now I find myself here:
alone in a blue vacuum,
putting together pieces
of a puzzle for eternity.
I need my puzzle to be
read, I need to be sold,
molded, solid, created,
put in perspective, full.
I need all these things,
I appreciate every piece.
I know that I just need
you like an opened door.
I Need You
I didn't mean to say
that two hands applied
to a nail a back a toe
curled in hurling its
wrath is such a big
turn-on, just that I
have to say it as I
don't know what to
do with myself except
put myself in your
path, ask for a pow-
wow or an armistice,
anything for those hands
Adam Fieled is a poet based in Philadelphia. He has released two books and three chaps: books are Opera Bufa (Otoliths, 2007), Beams (Blazevox, 2007), chaps, Posit (Dusie Press, 2007), Funtime (Funtime Press, 2007), and Revolver (Scantily Clad Press, 2008). Two additional books and a chapbook are forthcoming: Help!, a chap from Greying Ghost in August, When You Bit.., a book from Otoliths late summer '08, and Chimes, a book from Blazevox in 2009. Fieled edits the blog-journal PFS Post, has guest edited Ocho, and has contributed to Jacket, Dusie, Tears in the Fence, Upstairs at Duroc's, Ectoplasmic Necropolis, Mipoesias, and many other journals.
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Sunday, July 06, 2008
Sarah Heller
Everyone's Ex-Girlfriend
Everyone's ex-girlfriend keeps showing up.
She surfaces when I've only just relaxed,
when I let things be
soft. I recognize her because I've been her so well.
You have nothing to worry about,
he says. Why would I want someone
who tried so hard to hurt me?
And then the distracted look.
She used to scream at everyone,
was the first to walk out.
Everyone's ex-girlfriend
had sex with their good friends
during a phase.
Everyone's ex-girlfriend is always
meeting everyone late at night.
Busy girl. He says
Maybe I'll stop by after
and then calls from home.
I say Did you have a good time
and he says We've really grown apart.
But I can picture the tall bar stools.
You look great, they might
say to each other, shiny eyes. You always were
like that. Some things never change.
It's snowing! The snow is in their hair.
When he says It was wild to see someone
after so long, I hear Our skin was so cold.
Everyone says
I don't know who I am right now.
I feel like I haven't felt anything in a long time.
Alright, he says to her,
You're giving me a hard-on.
Really, she murmurs. She is so mean.
Her drink splashes around in her glass.
Touch it, he says.
My Life on a Conveyor Belt
Mostly, my lover lies there,
his soft penis against his thigh.
He is sleeping. I watch him go by.
Then – the commandments.
And my body parts,
breasts falling to the side
snagging on the rubber,
hair flowing from a small white plate
covered with tildes.
The clear plastic bowl on top.
The hostess seats people all around me.
Desire shimmers by like the pavement
in sunshine. My family is not on the belt,
they are in me.
The belt motors:
a beautiful soap dish,
a small machine.
Some soup, or at least a soupy substance.
Piles of sugar.
Plus one man.
My heart pounds. Is it the sugar?
Fear like an animal crouching
at the night opening of a tent. Dark
at first, and then the eyes adjust.
Sarah Heller received her BA from Bard College and her MFA in poetry from NYU. She currently works as the Executive Director of the Authors League Fund and teaches at Rutgers University. She has work published or forthcoming in Painted Bride Quarterly, Pembroke Magazine, NextBook The Temple/El Templo, Thin Air, and Hayloft, and she is on the board of directors of Nightboat Books. She has received fellowships or awards from the MacDowell Colony, the Drisha Institute, Virginia Council for the Creative Arts, Vermont Studio Center, and the Soul Mountain Retreat. She was the recipient of the Nadya Aisenberg Fellowship at the MacDowell Colony for 2005-2006.
Everyone's ex-girlfriend keeps showing up.
She surfaces when I've only just relaxed,
when I let things be
soft. I recognize her because I've been her so well.
You have nothing to worry about,
he says. Why would I want someone
who tried so hard to hurt me?
And then the distracted look.
She used to scream at everyone,
was the first to walk out.
Everyone's ex-girlfriend
had sex with their good friends
during a phase.
Everyone's ex-girlfriend is always
meeting everyone late at night.
Busy girl. He says
Maybe I'll stop by after
and then calls from home.
I say Did you have a good time
and he says We've really grown apart.
But I can picture the tall bar stools.
You look great, they might
say to each other, shiny eyes. You always were
like that. Some things never change.
It's snowing! The snow is in their hair.
When he says It was wild to see someone
after so long, I hear Our skin was so cold.
Everyone says
I don't know who I am right now.
I feel like I haven't felt anything in a long time.
Alright, he says to her,
You're giving me a hard-on.
Really, she murmurs. She is so mean.
Her drink splashes around in her glass.
Touch it, he says.
My Life on a Conveyor Belt
Mostly, my lover lies there,
his soft penis against his thigh.
He is sleeping. I watch him go by.
Then – the commandments.
And my body parts,
breasts falling to the side
snagging on the rubber,
hair flowing from a small white plate
covered with tildes.
The clear plastic bowl on top.
The hostess seats people all around me.
Desire shimmers by like the pavement
in sunshine. My family is not on the belt,
they are in me.
The belt motors:
a beautiful soap dish,
a small machine.
Some soup, or at least a soupy substance.
Piles of sugar.
Plus one man.
My heart pounds. Is it the sugar?
Fear like an animal crouching
at the night opening of a tent. Dark
at first, and then the eyes adjust.
Sarah Heller received her BA from Bard College and her MFA in poetry from NYU. She currently works as the Executive Director of the Authors League Fund and teaches at Rutgers University. She has work published or forthcoming in Painted Bride Quarterly, Pembroke Magazine, NextBook The Temple/El Templo, Thin Air, and Hayloft, and she is on the board of directors of Nightboat Books. She has received fellowships or awards from the MacDowell Colony, the Drisha Institute, Virginia Council for the Creative Arts, Vermont Studio Center, and the Soul Mountain Retreat. She was the recipient of the Nadya Aisenberg Fellowship at the MacDowell Colony for 2005-2006.
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