the poetry that matters

Alex Cruse

Alex Cruse grew up in Whittier, California. While studying at UC Berkeley, she worked as Senior Editor of the Undergraduate English Association's literary journal, The Folio. Her writing has appeared in such places as 3AM Magazine, Maximumrockandroll, and the Los Angeles Times. She has self-published several chap-books of poetry, art work, and experimental prose: BLIND AND FINITE, Pro Geras, and Untitled, or, WHEN SOMEONE BEATS YOU WITH A FLASHLIGHT YOU MAKE LIGHT SHINE IN ALL DIRECTIONS.


A Machinery Meant for Pretty Calm



speaking of “new haircuts,” “diets,” “weather”…


--weather, held within a broadening sky, which encloses our every pattern, the myths

hinged upon constellations. They infiltrate our fixed dialogic Systems, and we move with



                        and yes, the Ancients are in dialogue with our understandings:
                        of one another; our inadequacies; our weapons; our own bodies.


We should never speak of the Gukurahundi, of politicide, of genocide
of Levittowns and commodity fetishism
of graffiti on mosques and broken
Temple windows of
childrens' lost
limbs of Tantalum
wars in the Congo—

we are manacled forever to the most mundane tragedies

of our own psyches.


Speak of fashion and I will kill you:
we cannot unpack the artifice that originates inside us.


Speak only of science, and find sanctuary in law built biological—the last

            predictable pattern on an insane and senseless earth.


Love is a minor calculus, shifting within the rubric of the seasons.


We are dumb and childlike in our bankruptcy,
our wilderness.


Our axis has run out of stamina.


This is where structure ends.




Asthma, Gemini, and Other Air Signs


For infidels in need of a tool kit, I have included

the pentagram (5 elements);

a sack of our state’s rock:

Serpentinite [Mg3 Si2 O5 (OH)4 // quintile Oxygen]


for use within

the Pentagon: its foundation, too, a sheared matrix.


Cracks in it should be filled with the contents of vials

which line war-rooms:

the sweat of informants and journalists,

pheromones to which

only Bravery responds.


In deep fugue weather, Atrocity holds congress in empty zones,

where eyes speak their wild approach.


Their questioning will, ideally, extend past your sentence.


Sp1e2a5k the2 typ1ologie2s of e2t4he2r a5n3d p1la5stic:


prismatic air-signs, a fire that exists slowly, an endothermic Invisible.






                                                fabric of media noise.


Confuse the meter in their lines of fear tattoos.

Shred and transpose code-logics, and stagger

out of the interrogation space

pre-language, the first of your DNA’s many atavisms.


Your extradition will be mandated when you are more problem than limb.

“Illuminati Symbol As Passport Stamp.”

You are reminded that the only thing

more composed than power
is Secret.


All anti | humans unite.


Sidewalk debris is, at times, mistaken for a dead animal, but never the other way around.




Parabola, and, subtly: alone



i,          The inconceivability of a mysophobe’s happiness, so filthy is love.


                      ii,         the quiet degeneration of photographic hue, at war with sunlight,
                      mutes the contrast of ruins unexplainable, deep spokes of shadow carved
                      into the frame, a darkness incidental to mass; a photo, evidence of love
                      empirical. Prove my sight. Validate.


                                  iii,        Weaving of noise, together, assimilated  yet oscillating,
                                  waxing the faux wooden veneers, the anachronisms and Scottish
                                  sentiment; streaking down the glass: profanity, epiphany,
                                  conjecture, laugh; the carbon exhaust, half-life of humor,


                                                          the slow activation of internal acids, throats
                                              lacquered with microtonal organic procedures, dirgeful
                                              song of the arabesque inside you.



                                              iv,        All my masks, mannequin heads, fake hands, wigs:
                                              obsessed with plastics, a perverse refuge from mymisanthropy:
                                              mimesis of the body itself.



Symmetry Breaking


I have taken

it upon myself


to re-christen Sunday as:


an inherited epiphany,

a Pyrrhic victory,

a recirculation

back from a self


-induced hell/inverted


where the black-blue psyche of my Animus

is generated

and steps forth.


God exists


only in man’s

discriminations of the finite.


Your judgments cannot be written;


I have


all the alphabets locked in my teeth.


Your eyes are like pools of hot wax collecting on the tops

of 2 white candles.


Another shrine I can’t believe.


My mind translates this into “21.52782 lux.”

It’s all pretty easy to understand.


Until your autobiography screams, anthologize every cough.




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                                                                                                                  August 22, 2013