Amy KING
Causes for Celebration
So much of it happened the night
the sky was sober beneath
the hidden words of poet men.
I took from you virginity
and gave it back again.
And a little red robin with
clavicle broken
is used extensively in
our living laboratory.
He wears cut-off shorts
and a nightlight for help.
No, the little bird performs
right at the bottom
of being alive.
Based on implied comparisons
our commissioned scientist
ignores the gaps and goes straight
for an opposition.
But no one can explain
beginner's luck or
the novice's jugular or
who has taken the lead here tonight.
You see, truck after lacerating truck
sings by, blowing my wig from head,
blurring my wig on my head.
I have passed the time gazing at traffic.
I have passed the time grazing in traffic.
I have passed the time.
In conjunction, a single hair from
my original mane grows on my mother's chin.
Just so you know, this has been
a living testament
for the cloning arts.
As long as I keep approaching
the inevitable, you will pet a kangaroo
until you never know what one is.
Like last night, dogs and alcohol named Bailey
kept refreshing my drink. I am drunk
moreover on the expertise of Pandora's eggshells
in a box and her dollheads hanging on the line.
Elsewhere economy is a psycho-pathetic adventure.
In one city, we experience
virtual displacement for the cost
of a laser jet ink removal plan.
In another town, we get to meet a combination
soda-sandwich-shoe-repair machine.
An up-close on the wonders of a one-horse town.
Embrace the new position of past: open
your arms wide and grasp
the winged expanse that eats an apple,
delivers a worm who loves
and weaves our sweaters, at last.
The Politics of Friendship
A cupping hand opens like
a house is a story
with many stories layered,
a wedding cake of words over wood,
messages in glue-gun candy,
Everyday is a compromise.
Escape is another mode of being.
A bartender expects an eternal answer
in the foam on your upper lip.
In a lyric to be written on the Statue of Liberty,
my syllables echo Benny Franklin's bell,
And I don't need music by which
to enter the city; I've got
potholes, Brooklyn, and your face like a Blakean
manuscript on fire. The weather in your lines
has made us spacious, and softly guided toward nil.
Other facts less erotic:
You don't speak internet.
You aren't familiar with Tokyo slang.
You won't make chained-kat noises in bed.
Dietary advice comes through
a dream's hiccup: empty less,
saturate your head.
The same way the eye moves from automatic wringing
to objects in the hand, we are not alone.
Sharks suffer more claw marks
than us on their heads
And know an answer lies
within how many conversations
are not about you.
Upon Our Lives
In matters physical, obituary veins
make maps of flowers in relief,
a sideways rose and shadow petunia follow
us on walks along the beach.
Persons in the way paling stoop
to pick up their victim ticket. Otherwise,
flash memory hides dog bites and busted kites,
beer cans on a picket fence.
Our poseur cameras puzzle at the flux
of U-hauls and taxis, the threat that nothing
lingers, quietly bridging the promise of no
apocalypse or Jesus.
Wearing motorcycle boots, we will one
day discover levity is an actual air
and salute our hand-sewn auras
in hopeful tuxedos floating there.
Until then, I leave myself
a dish untouched,
a robot on return tomorrow night
with castrated desire.
Instead of military, corporate,
and Hollywood branches, I become
the spare driver of swimming baths and windmills,
cocktails and gramophones on loan,
so that a renewable state of war
might exist between us,
if only you could see my love
as clearly as the next persona's.
With matching arms, we wade
through car horns over dog whistles waning,
voices on blur and sand-filled sighs,
composing a record that plays
our hand-churned, heart-felt disguise.