Adam Fieled

#1200


She asked me how I did it,
I turned my arm over, said
look at these veins, I write
with them, they are a well,
she said well that’s all very
dramatic, but those veins
should be used for life—

if your blood is working
double-time, your heart will
only get half of what it
needs. She hurt me, I said
leave my blood alone, you
can never understand, but
her full house beat my flush—



Adam Fieled is a poet based in Philadelphia. He has released five print books: Opera Bufa (Otoliths, 2007), When You Bit... (Otoliths, 2008), Chimes (Blazevox, 2009), Apparition Poems (Blazevox, 2010), and Equations (blue & yellow dog press, 2011), as well as e-books like Beams (Blazevox, 2007), Disturb the Universe: The Collected Essays of Adam Fieled (Argotist e-books, 2010), and Mother Earth (Argotist e-books, 2011). He has work in Jacket, Cordite, Pennsound, Poetry Salzburg Review, the Argotist, Great Works, Tears in the Fence, Upstairs at Duroc, and in the & Now Awards Anthology from Lake Forest College Press.

MC Hyland

SWIM-CINEMA & YOU


your skin
in the flame falling
the lightest snow
in rhythm

are we in a new
kind of beach
clouds refracted &
static as though

my eyes only watch
the boat devoid
the gate placed by
sur la côte d’azur

& the slow drift
from the hillside
how the names
beach this water

forehead crease
waves gently upon
the light in the
woman & boy

& now leaves
winking & reflective
within a jar
the man crushed

a black cloak the
madonna these walls
& an arrow
in the din & dim fog


MC Hyland is the author of Neveragainland (Lowbrow Press) and the chapbooks Every Night In Magic City (H_NGM_N), Residential, As In (Blue Hour Press) and (with Kate Lorenz and Friedrich Kerksieck) the hesitancies (Small Fires Press). She lives in Minneapolis, where she runs DoubleCross Press and the Pocket Lab ReadingSeries, and works at Minnesota Center for Book Arts.

Caroline Young

RECONSTRUCTION FLYERS


Because birds do not wait for insurance agents,
I assess

the mother as she settles on the Elm
eyes over broken limbs

drops and bombs, sizing twigs by beak.

Dwelling under fallen trees
her silence

keeps things simple. The adjuster whys over
every brick, measures life

in shingles, chimney, sheetrock, boards and nails.
I review my coverage.

Overhead, the harbingers drift.
Beneath, the street life lies: eyes negotiate

lines down, sidewalks strewn in reconstruction flyers
remains are not to be removed

by firemen, lawyers, photographers, anyman
with a chainsaw.

I count torn gutters to resettle.

Where trees once lined the street – a sky
beneath, a row of brittle homes

strip-searched by the storm.

Amid the rubble, nests are born
of insulation, splintered beams.



Caroline Young has grown increasingly tired of our culture’s persistent cat/dog debate. Both animals are masters of the kill shake, so what is there to discuss? If someone wants to write a poem about this, she will read it. Otherwise, she’ll just keep putting her faith in trees. Thanks for reading the work.