20160603

Mary Kasimor



chalk scars

we are cured with morphine, poured lime into the dream holes
left for a reason. how long will it take before it turns into stone?
i dwell in compartments made with pain and smell like pain smelling
like another pain, like roses with beauty and nightmares. captured
on film the credits roll us over. we look at each other when a phone rings.
as you sit at your typewriter writing about human behavior, alphabetizing
memes, i am high on morphine and writing the novel about a wild hard
surface. water spills out of thunder, and you--who are you? nothing is left
but some seeds that need planting: a heart plant for you, a finger plant
with dirt below the nails buried and hidden (like sins of our brothers).
if we don’t move we won’t be found. in a cave with chalk scars dark
bones burned in a spoon, the beauty of decomposition. the beauty of
rot, breathe in and digest yourself. we are tapestries of a former life
before thread and fabric measured to hide our dna, filling ourselves
with landscapes, bowls of fruit, data emerging out of the facts share
our fate. but no, this is not so bad. that was never mine.




wooden toys

with a child
in her life
wandered
by
still wandering
an ending with folding clothes
feeding baby
baby growing
outgrowing
folded clothes
cooked
everyday cooking
a sofa too heavy
to move
falls out of the room
steps empty
a little boy wandering
in chaos herding ants
hand
made toys
the wooden earth
on its back
little boy wanders
through
doesn’t see
anything but light



video game

dumpsters dying             into ourselves
hair’s rusted corners 
it    ‘s                  dirty in 
the alley       take the toaster         
and run with it
with what you           ’ve got   
to exit      or to leave
the birds leave    
showers of graff  iti              
dancing he     at  
dan    cing death
blood raining
video games    p  lay
with sex
how the hell            do you do    that
i’m going        to fuck my      girlfriend
wholly      ness through the window
the green                   buddha 
takes a                       selfie        
god mixes thunder 
drinks wine               buys all
the water
from the dollar     store



calm. avenue.

Love pines baring faces of a clinical emotion
limiting choice. Old exits. River bends
dumpsters swelling off the crane. Nowhere to go
but to adjust self-pod posing as a king’s electricity.
Party brocade runs mechanical. Metal trees green
random jammed blood worked. Silver cloudy
plummeting futures make up salt. Crisis
the highways. Track time. In angled trees
moving boulders my old spaceship wears agates.
Iron addictive demands never fulfilled. In frozen
gardens air wary lips fetus pool dolphins. Snuggle
fat skin views a left handed zero. Emission
fruit. Chaired wood rules how stiffly broken
one time. Sparse hair bald mountain.
Drilling obsidian blurb enraged. Blew mind
enforcers don’t respond but pierced words. Despair
flowers and north most route telepathy reaction
accessed year terminating a peach. Photo brain
seeded confidence never meeting a calm. Avenue.




sun corners

melting in the rain 
i hold myself in its beatified eye
                                                            the trees       
                        black and white
stars cut open the blood   
leaning 
against moonlight 
hanging onto no more than joyful
the unidentified world flees
knocking me unconscious in motion
hardcore pornography 
                                 a still undressed knife
                             filled dreams in the completed dance
each one being equal to one another 
each night in the kitchen 
cracks in porcelain      blood songs shrieking
i took off my breasts    
fed them to the birds
blackbirds eating blackberries        
sipping from nipples
bleach in the shapeless light
i hide you in my body behind my barbaric eye
you hold my beauty in a brittle design
standing in the blank matter of our bodies 
locked doors bursting for recognition
                        how did this happen
                                falling into places with us 
my thumbs hold the leaf prints 
in the yellow buzz of what I think next
this red town 
this place and windows mirrors curtains drawers
locks and doors strangers’ fences 
corners                         plants
fences                                  bicycles        
                             a ragged morning 
in the corner a sun 
in a room
The sky identically priced 
now all is completed from a series of lies
caressing pain longing for saints in tearooms 
artificial tears               hats of bird nests 
birds have fled
and in busy construction 



Mary Kasimor has most recently been published in Big Bridge, Arsenic Lobster, Nerve Lantern, Posit, 3 AM, Touch the Donkey, Yew Journal and The Missing Slate. Her two latest books are The Landfill Dancers (BlazeVox Books 2014) and Saint Pink (Moria Books 2015). She has a poetry blog entitled Sprung Poems.
 
 
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