Thanks to the beautiful and brilliant Todd Shalom of Elastic City for this lovely audio-poetic response to the last post. It’s lovely and challenging and it captures some of my anxieties and my reflections/diffractions of those anxieties expressed in the last post.

Does it speak to you too? Let it!

I know this isn’t free of
bull shit.
I mean, I’m coming from somewhat of a
It’s a kind of stacking.
I mean
The ideas just pile up but aren’t
They are not connected or
It’s a thought at least.
Disembodied ideas being thrown against a
But that isn’t fair
That isn’t fair for me or
That really kind of
And that’s not my intention.
I can assure you of that
I want you to be with me.

Over this plate flat
expanse, the low
slate sky in shale
layered shades shifting
above, sleet static
across the windshield
I reach slowly through
the glass into the
impossible petticoats
of a first late winter
storm, too late, but
here anyway.

The soft blue
this short day
feels a way through
quietly creeping
a crack in December
rock from between two layers
A yawning first eye opens,
a soft
pale gray disc
Thrown between dark
stallion clouds
which run beneath
the pegasus cirrus wisps
singing over everything.

to that humble
desperate sun
which reaches
only now
before being
interned again
into the long

Low bell
not really ringing
so clear
so much as clunk
clunk again
tied to your neck
so I can find you
when you wander.

A fly buzzes you
never afraid,
you just amble
flicking an ear
back to pulling grass
distended humor
foaming green between your crowded teeth.

This work is usually done alone
But we have found a way to feel
these fields
to be
together, even set apart
by an ocean of lost ice
weeping its way to saline shores
the slow violence
our forgotten fate
rendered from old choices
too linked to the pastoral
of a tiny home on
an empty island
which used to be ours.

We go on culling the
partisans of sense
telling them our electric tales
of an ethics
urbanized by the mesh
of our latent indulgences

A pretty barista
A lobster
An army of vacuuming ants
Piling crumbs near the mattress
Leaving quietly thorough a hole in the wall
Where the dead squirrel was found.

We are where we have always been
touching by underground wires
in pixels
the false approximation of flannel
I feel the terry cloth sound between my teeth
it hurts to swallow
that sound

Do they move together?
Tracing the countours of that hill
unable to see the world beyond this island
It was a gift.

Cleaved in two by a wolf
We had left them too long.
They are young.

And we
are the shepherds of desire.

Elliðaey Island

There will be no first person singular in this writing.
Give up on the idea that one can express the singularity,
That there’s anything other than the normative
or the suggestive eye

That we’ve got something more than what we want you to do
That there’s a big sale today
And you’re just in time to catch limited times
On offer the offal what’s left when the rest is roasted

Contractions everywhere, lacking time with this thinking machine
ticking away the clack
a set of keys lighted from beneath
the warm glow of a machine whose love is directed only to these fingers.

We touch more than anyone else,
Gushing over, I realize now that it’s absurd to occlude my voice
This insistence on being generalized
Or indirect; I’m not talking to you.

[Partially found, partially made.]

I am the interlocutor
A pile.

This is not linear,
nor lingual
dorsal thoracic

As your spine
makes my hand
into a trace

This dance is set to clicks and pops,
static tome of sound

so all of a sudden
the plural
won’t drop its ess es any more
Than I can stop this little lisp
That trips me up when
I am
needing not to be
so queeny


I weep in ecstasy
over a perfect squash
How the flesh expresses
a warmth contained barely

These words
which write themselves
over and over again
alone, a force, alone
unto themselves
will not abide
endless rereading
how long is too long
to wait?

This must be the smallest elevator on earth.
A tangram.

Judy, folded and stained,
Watching over three Mary’s
As we map our holy intentions.


Moontime Warrior

A Blog by Erica Violet Lee

Kshyama's Attic

a collection of political and personal thoughts, poetry, prose.

tequila sovereign

(c) joanne barker

Naked Heart

The LGBTQ Festival of Words

incroci de-generi

tra classe, razza, genere e specie

Sky Writer

Donna Cunningham's Blog on astrology, healing, and writing.

Yanis Varoufakis


Open Geography

Open is an adjective and a verb


Non lasciare che la scintilla venga del tutto spenta dalle legge - Paul Klee -

Working-Class Perspectives

Commentary on Working-Class Culture, Education, and Politics


films by Kami Chisholm

Picket Parade

Voices and Stories from the 2015 York Strike Lines

Heal to Strike

Refuel at Mobile Strike Therapeutics

Cento Trattorie di Bologna

La guida con le migliori trattorie e ristoranti di Bologna. Dove mangiare i tortellini, le tagliatelle e le lasagne più buone della città. Un brasiliano in giro per cento trattorie bolognesi, attento anche alla bilancia!

%d bloggers like this: