Mary Kasimor

the fountain

I love what I know. It’s a small piece of the whole expanding horizons,
fitting in a small space in my ear. I will drive miles to be there.

My soul searches for truth, now a containable filled bargain.

I dangle my soul like a small charm; then it becomes a large
heart hung around my neck: airbrushed normal flat surfaced perfection.

The pond with a fountain glows like a glove filled with uranium.

I remember an elaborate lie backwards.

I was not a little girl sleeping with my pregnancy.

If you own me, hang up my skin. Show it off at night when
the fountain spills out the shape of desire.

It was taught to us as an immaculate virgin.
I need to shop.

My shape is a sweet & revised version scheduled for obsolescence.
The brain’s mystery holds fluff.

The whore of Babylon saves herself & dies without her tongue.

A longing for silk underwear wears an expression of the self as
an existential vagina.

blood compass

Then those who said less finally asked, what do you
know about reason? The symmetric conclusion dozes in a corner.

An unusual vertical position pointed in the wrong direction.

Blood ran in the wrong direction off course without a compass. The North Pole
fell into forgotten gravity.

Someone needed the direction over pampas & right wing propaganda.

The president gathered the wheat; he ate it, rich in the clean syrup
of humanity.

The lists of needs go on; then we rejoice that the lake is cleaner
than the sewer.

Confusing ourselves with each other, the eye is never thou, & then
you eat our cake.


of mystery’s abundance
turned                               off balance
I answered myself
what should I know      agony
                                              in the self
cells blank principles
                                              blank blank
who reads the books on
safety                                 valves in
living rooms

sheep in my voice
oxygen in the attic
without trees
the news
slippery slope                 neighborhood
houses creep
to an old                            november
my hand grabs
                                              the past
but cannot
periods of violence
we blend in                        avocado with

blank gaze
what I mean
holds the
time capsule
I never meant
                                              the mystic’s

the western

the east tastes of vinegar tight-
lipped &
sour apples
no woman need apply
scientific oppression approached
from a bounty of speed
the galloping
horses frozen in steel

she vanished for good
she argued
for width
in the movies she climbed out
windows claimed herself
a heart warm
slovenly morning
out the window to
the west she left
a sense of space she
left a witness
walking on sand & swamp
& lakes
& cornfields
to the furthest
place to the fabric torn

the continuity
of any
a pattern to the west paper-
doll shadows
with north poles separating each
piece of her
she grew
antennas & a force of
nature she disappeared
into a digital
the edited movie of the west

Mary Kasimor's poetry has appeared in my online and print journals, most recently Cannot Exist, May Day, Reconfigurations, Otoliths, anything anymore anywhere, among others. She has two books of poetry: silk string arias (BlazeVox Books) and & cruel red (Otoliths). She has become a Kundalini yoga enthusiast, and that seems to help balance the passion of her writing.
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