ditch,

the poetry that matters

Mary Kasimor

Mary Kasimor grew up in Minnesota, but now lives between Washington (State) and Minnesota.  She has most recently been published in the following journals: Yew Journal, Big Bridge, Reconfigurations, Moria, Otoliths, Certain Circuits, The Bakery, and Altered Scale. She received a Fellowship from US Poets in Mexico for the 2010 Conference. She was also a Finalist in the 2011 Ahsahta Chapbook Contest. She has two books of poetry, & cruel red (Otoliths 2010) and silk string arias (BlazeVOX 2008). She has a new chapbook The Windows Hallucinate that will be published through Little Red Leaves Textile Series.

 

new body

 

                                                         i

Too many bodies cocooned                in utero

                  & so the WATERS                     joined Hands casting

                      out numbers & then became          fishes & memory

               Echoes &                                     belches in the ORANGE morning

                    & breaking off edges                             of each thing

& floating  NORTH                           to the SOUTHERN discovery

        with tactile surroundings but Unfelt             LIKE billions

                   of thoughts & we are one                & I am no one

           Less myself in exposed blinding               escape

             of ANTS without                   what

                    TO DO                       WE played in closets & basements

              born moist                        of SHELL

                  Bodies surviving in old aunty’s dust       escaped

by description                             Into the next room

              & IT WAS green                   after we grew more

 

                                                        ii

a meat quivers                                       whose is it(?)

              in the red jello that I ate                             genetic CODEs

                      unwinding the normalcy           of phonetic bedtime

clock’s Womb closets                             where I HID MY hands

                I poked at it                         & it got Resounding applause

   & it knew                                                       no one unlike itself &

             in THE parking lot                                           you pried                    

                          apart my legs &                 by the WATERS

                   we did it                            & it startled itself into

         a consciousness                  & reminded ITSELF of its dreams

& finally the MEAT                         quit breathing & we Ate it & Time

    startling the pond          & swollen trails quivered moon sounds

 


 

 

counting insects eating small

                        earth’s gravity angles         lace    space absurdity

             

and bone

elements diagramming       

                                               snails and wasps      image drama of

           insects eating small     chunks of farmland   

of famished eternity

from black       

                          holes in white invisible      

                                         futures alter ego sold as

the grand canyon                     the letters began at     

birth and the being

               replaced a tree      

the forest and wheat          count knives and

                                                                      forks a mystery in       

                missed possibilities         and the bees search

                           for angles              time notes to itself         

the earth that was never

malleable and made out    

                          of the light             and once the light

                                 they buried the fingers of        the body and it dwelt  

                                               among it           selves

                   without a string                  a piano    a needle or the spun  

                             darkness that

opens cupboards of flowers   

                                            and teacups and            plates and

                                                 bowls no secrets       to explain no ions            

                          no  clouds no

                                  sweaters and the rain      poured out shiny skin  

into the windows

                                        among the doors       of secrets           and mercy 

                                                       depends on

                                                           the telling of the angle         the face

when it falls      into the body

                                    buried secretly     starting the lineage

of whom     we didn’t know

                                   and no one was        numbered and       

                                                we named him without

an inheritance              as we are scattered    

as we repeat ourselves

                                           inside the storm clear       eyes a surprise among    

                         other in

                                   the sounds of the birds          pouring themselves into    

                                              form that              same face without         a surface

                                     or eyes         

but music flew with                the black crows of      length and so

                     we sat      in our chairs holding

                                           spoons and some things   changed in black   

                           cotton mostly

                                    names without homes       and nomadics for water      

and trees and

                                            flat surface sun and earth      and the blood              

                      of meats animals         the fruit of                      the womb’s

                                                     natural sugar      the babies

kept coming                                       and we left ourselves                

to be                  sold alone before  

                we started mathematics               itself without             so much

 

 


 

lullaby hallucinations in the library

 

                                                  i

 

please submit        

                  to explain pure handling plans     break breeze     

                                        pieces off

       itinerant plainclothes people

                           monks and nuns and mimes

                                                                gabbing on wheels

to move the red truck

                      performance burlesque         squeezes dioxides               

rain

rain

                         falls upon my dog

                                            prom costs more penny daisies

ready to bloom

 

 

machinating chairs

 

                                                   ii

 

I rose to the nights of pink hustle. furthering the story changes to

a fully clothed series of exhibits their blessed may selves a perfect

carved memory piggybacking onto need. what separates the economy

from the country the anxious wheel drives the numbers. survival with

no music the piano plays the brain a phantom fire eater’s word swallows

for submission purposes only. half a version of horse to where it ends

chasing itself again unsuccessful with sounds to dream.

 

                                                      iii

 

                and I stepped out onto the street            waiting to be hit

wanting more than            that lost life             with no chance

                       of winning the future

                                                    or moving forward

past the information

                     I couldn’t tell you more then I moved      the furniture

                                  just to change places              mirror reflections

                                             in the garden

 and what grew                              was a small name

of a piece for peonies                  a fugue for ourselves

                      not just me

            but all the reflections                  changing with margins for error

                            the deer in               the library hallucinations

                                          wailed for what were identified

with an X blended                         together with the shame

                        of self with                 unspeakable

            art that reflected ourselves           inside and out

I fell into a dream

 

                                                iii

 

                         you fell out of life     like life              between borders

               where the music felt                           restless and a broken

drum

and a broken guitar                 are spare pieces for

                  the wild dog that ate the heart          (air)      the wild bird

     flying into the cave                                     the house always locked

                the sleep dreamed                                 the skin left out to

dry the days                            facing the desert the flowers confusion             

              dead as a stone

 

                                                 iv

 

I wore only a ring and the bells rang out.

 

 with the taste of blood I cleaned my hands, fitting them into a teacup.

 

made of fine bones, my face was a breeze on the red flowered veins in

winter.

 

in the white snow I wore the white silence.

 

waiting for time to break every meaning of existence,  I hung myself

like walls.

 

I faced down my own reflections.

 

I discovered my shadow to find my paths opening the book.

 

for lack of reflection, I made myself.

 


 

the hand machine

the world felt simple         

lying on the page           

Like planets

like PROCESSIONS

             

& breakfast knows marmalade    

& she

is not a cat        

the dog lies under simplicity      

uttering velvet

& darkness

                    

No stars          

the brooding sleep moves         

kin &                         

Bone & body      

a safe presence in drawers

opening & closing       

the privacy Of exhaustion   

in a carefully

folded future

               

& trends failed         

in Another trend of         

words painted as              

wooden Voodoo        

With questions of

keeping quiet spaces     

adding angles   

for 24 suns Untying knots        

from a body locking in           

a cat trance

          

IT feels New & she                

dressed differently      

from the other two   

having Spoken between      

lips & the hand MACHINE

          

the Others           

wove a fast

message that faded         

at THE edge             

of the Afternoon time      

for tea & whiskey      

a day in complex        

Anonymity features       

in blood stains         

& Ending without dogs     

Barking or dishes

washing or noise changing   

with Refrigerators     

deaf doors

 

 

 


 

before spoons

 

THE BOdy knows simplicity

& TONgue sensation WHAT is

Different feelS touched

often WIRED

wind BANDS of reD

 

BUT there is NO resolution in TELEvision

White TEXTure feeds the BABY

in TIME it WILL forget her ENORmous

DREAMS of an OCEAn and LandSLIdes

& play WITH the EDGiness

of measuring SPoons

 

 

 

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                                                                                                  May 30, 2013