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Wyoming

by Iris Cushing

 

I’m in “my own home,” yet “finding myself” gowned in a bong Winnebago. My new name is “chimney gingham.” There is a “clear spiritual quality” where spirit animals appear on spirit plains and roam a portfolio of her long soul-searching. The poems abandon me on “the outskirts” of a “town called Nowhere” to encounter the language of strangers. Stories from the Interior era empty of omissions and omens and emerald women. Sequined sequoias. Her “state lines” stand in the wind, and I why? like listening “to a lit candle.” A giant sign by the rising highway – the sun is always glamorous.

 

Young Tambling

by Kate Greenstreet

It’s about intimate anonymity. The book is a “brook” as “daybreaks” – a missing person torn into the fog – “looking for a way to look.” Lurking, corner-camera, I “found her in the churchyard, writing on herself.” Internal dialogue, deer-to-deer, “otherworldly” interrogation. Hear how our girl-hero – “young adult” with a “hunting gun” – once verbed barefoot in a prerecorded forest. Absconded into abstraction (was actually called) to be variously impregnated by drams of murderous herb. Symbolic psychodrama. The word “sawn” and “sung” – I am both “doleful soldier” and “runaway nun.” Fear interacts with fact, and fortune, and act of faith, to collage her mysterious disappearance.

 

Monkeys, Minor Planet, Average Star

by Gracie Leavitt

“Above ground” but “dumbfounded.” I’m now a “dear bureaucrat” knee-deep in dense boxwood, heaping deepwood, lumpen boggy, parataxis. Her bawdy sauntering, overstepping, loony-tuned consonance, pretty stresses. Through “furzy sparse,” her “touch-and-go” is “thorough-going” and “thick of referents.” These are “wheatears” very much “fern-blurred,” irrigated by eros and “vernal beer.” Somesuch stumbling and “tactically tumbling” are categorically sorted (sordid) bits. My tongue mums “between” sentences – meaning “betwixt”? I lean the italic habitat – and later I read “italicked,” do a number of Boolean swoons.

 

The Posture of Contour / A Public Primer

by James Belflower

On a continuous lecture tour i.e. “terrorist circle.” I’m so aware of the surrounding postulates – pissy students flipping burgers. Community attention is fluid and flickering – my life is a brief “poverty of belief.” His hypnotic histrionics cum slick communication model cars. This mechanical perv tells us (“virtuosos”) how to curve our bodies into an audience. Then reverses the spectacle – stares at me until I see stars. He courts motion censors with rhetorical flourish, porous puns, some super rude “quackulations.” Like Zeno with a saxophone throat, dude’s got sticky notes.

 

Stop the Ocean

by Laura Neuman

 Get-to-know-you poetry over sea-water martinis and surface tension. Second date – beach city vegan Wal*Mart – we “botch the order” of “each others” erasure. Ze’s a busy beggar in a wet T-shirt trying (not) to “separate” the sex of every “experience.” Meanwhile – I’m in a “time share” tearing pages from our “care package.” Venn diagram the inevitable environmental calamities – dirty governments, spilled dildos, liminally swimming. A li’l confrontation with policed online profiles is now out-and-out war on “the visual.” I can’t escape and can’t stay still. Scream at the screen: “It seems I am reading but what?”

 

 

 

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Published Oct 02, 2014 - Comments Off on What I’m Reading Now… by Matthew Klane

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