ditch,

the poetry that matters

J. Mae Barizo

J. Mae Barizo was born in Toronto. Shortlisted for Canada's 2008 Robert Kroetsch Award for Innovative Poetry and Ahsahta Press's Sawtooth Poetry Prize, she has received an International Publication Award from Atlanta Review, and was an Editor's Prize finalist for Spoon River Poetry Review. New work appears in Prairie Schooner, Denver Quarterly, Bellingham Review, Zoland Poetry and Another Chicago Magazine. She is the author of two chapbooks, "The Concert Review" and "The Marble Palace."

A N T H E L I O N
 

Answer me when I send text messages that make no sense but which

Notate ever so delicately the names of things not said.   Beauty, above all,

Trickles in between the mnemonic spaces.  O unmastered world.  Yield

Haltingly when it is grey, numbra of word across the

Electric page.  When I try to remember the documents

Lilt back and forth like pendulums, lulling me

Into a pleasure house.   Even the telephone

Oscillates into my perception of it, which ultimately blinks wearily, means

Nothing that counts. 

 

 

N O I L E H T N A
 

Nothing means that your are weary.  Ultimately perception will

Oscillate into the telephone.  Even the house pleasures

Into a lull, pendulum, forth and back like

Lilting documents.  Remember?  Try to.  I am

Electric.  Across the numbra a word greys

Haltingly, yielding to the world.  Unmastered space between us

Trickles above beauty.  Things are not said, names so delicately

Notate but sense that text messages are sent.

Answer me. 

 

 

N O M E N C L A T U R E              
 

Nonlinear as an interface can be, we wound round and round the rainy

Opening.  No matter that the edibility of the food inside the container

Mimicked something unpalatable.  The abdomen swelled,

Eyes flittered, the tricycles circled our

Nirvana: pink-pedaled, honking, the harmonies

Cloistered and unfathomable.  When the tongue trilled in that

Lustful manner the instrument could do nothing but

Act as if it were a human body or an eye, not looking at her. 

The bones bent towards each other, visited a whiskey pub,

Undressed the bar stools with attentive ears. 

Rama talked about Christian Bök and the sign said “You’re not in Kansas anymore”.

Either way, she knew that the night would not soon end. 

 

 

E R U T A L C N E M O M
 

End soon the night knew that she was not anymore in Kansas.

Rama eared Christian Bök and the attentive bar stools, then

Undressed the pub.  Whiskey makes us visit each other with bending bones.

The not-looking-at-her eye embodied something human.

Acting, but nothing instrumental in the manner.

Lustful in trilling with the tongue.  Unfathomable.  And

Cloistered harmonies honked, pedaled pinkly, what a

Nirvana!  Our circles and tricycles flittered, 

Eyes swelled, the abdomen unpalatable.  Something

Mimicked a container inside the edible food, no matter that the

Opening was rainy and round.  We both can be interface, wound up in each other and

Non-linear. 

 
 

T R I A N G U L A R        
  

The reasoning of the brain falters.  Not to say that such plasticity can

Return to its original shape, but the child, perhaps.  Though not

Inside the seed climbs slow, thumb prints on the skin

And within a dream of.  There was a river, I think,

New green of eye and an unsteady violence—

Grant me this, will you?  A small wish,

Unwarranted but sentimental, the rain so

Lawless and untidy no one thinks of Death at all. 

A reply of sorts, please, the shape that does not waver but

Reveals such a faultless austerity.

 
 

R A L U G N A I R T
   

Revealing but not wavering the shape was faultless and

Austere.  Sort of a reply Death thought you untidy,

Lawless, so the sentiment of the rain was

Unwarranted.   Wishing a small you, me,

Granting violence, unsteady I eyed your greenness.

New thinking like a river or a dream within.

And the print of the thumb climbed slow on the skin.  The seed

Inside though not the child, the original shape

Returned.  Can plasticity say something that falters?

The brain reasons.  Touch me.

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