Mary Kasimor
gossip
so many pieces overlapped, i watched from a wall little hands
and feet trying to get out. this is a quick lifetime and now
everyone is dying again. you dwell without yourself and give
holiness back to the deer walking by the window. the world
remains unexplored behind the fence, despite the vendetta.
only if you were used, bruising unexplained the horrors
of headless women. dogs gnawing on a horizon. the inflated
purpose of spectacle, landfills over there in faux view, maybe
a style of mirage. crows dominate the conversation. it is always
unplanned. it is all in an existential list of broken sex, the spillage
touches sores, the touch of pain torn apart. mother and baby
maybe found, eyes seeking family blood. reunions of assorted
skin then staring in horror, then removing the heart. blood
paintings on walls in subtle lines of bones breaking. and it
may not be true; it may be a stage. we may have gossiped.
monument salesman
five stars were all you left behind
creatures of motion
so then they walked away
then you left when you left again
having buried
the instructions
having left
the dentist’s office
having left behind
a bottle of bleach     a blurred mirror
you left yesterday’s newspaper
(nervously)
in the forest when you left again
aware of the dead body
and it was yours (as you became less you)
sold to a monument salesman
only men could lift the rivers
and granite steel in their heels
because some things had to happen
pushed it over the edge
falling was the
absence of certainty
how did you manage to fit it all into one box?
and today was barely sitting
so it continued
in a specific yearning for less
Mary Kasimor has been writing poetry for many years. Her recent poetry collections are The Landfill Dancers (BlazeVox Books 2014), Saint Pink (Moria Books 2015), The Prometheus Collage (Locofo Press 2017), and Nature Store (Dancing Girl Press 2017). She has also been a reviewer of many small press poetry collections.
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gossip
so many pieces overlapped, i watched from a wall little hands
and feet trying to get out. this is a quick lifetime and now
everyone is dying again. you dwell without yourself and give
holiness back to the deer walking by the window. the world
remains unexplored behind the fence, despite the vendetta.
only if you were used, bruising unexplained the horrors
of headless women. dogs gnawing on a horizon. the inflated
purpose of spectacle, landfills over there in faux view, maybe
a style of mirage. crows dominate the conversation. it is always
unplanned. it is all in an existential list of broken sex, the spillage
touches sores, the touch of pain torn apart. mother and baby
maybe found, eyes seeking family blood. reunions of assorted
skin then staring in horror, then removing the heart. blood
paintings on walls in subtle lines of bones breaking. and it
may not be true; it may be a stage. we may have gossiped.
monument salesman
five stars were all you left behind
creatures of motion
so then they walked away
then you left when you left again
having buried
the instructions
having left
the dentist’s office
having left behind
a bottle of bleach     a blurred mirror
you left yesterday’s newspaper
(nervously)
in the forest when you left again
aware of the dead body
and it was yours (as you became less you)
sold to a monument salesman
only men could lift the rivers
and granite steel in their heels
because some things had to happen
pushed it over the edge
falling was the
absence of certainty
how did you manage to fit it all into one box?
and today was barely sitting
so it continued
in a specific yearning for less
the shoe factory i television thought what i need never mind the mind is an invention then we discuss the past with our bodies ii whereas ideas never make rhythm but myths also feel better uninhibited in ways that say we self-consciously discovered ourselves i wanted to be the first to know always wanting my desire to know iii and then it became etcetera etcetera posted on the signs the people outside who glided past iv i thought about my grandfather i didn’t think about anything normal except the factory that made perfect shoes v we stood in line and sometimes the food was worth it vi but we disappeared one by one i would lose not only my mind my fingers and toes when my paranoia walked in front of me so i ignored it vii there were no new choices and you sewed it up the fabric was laden with advice viii i never saw you again i heard you died in the way we were broken where is that place where we are denied entry? ix i needed somewhere to sleep my body needed a space between words my body was clearly typed out in triplicate there were fields filled with marching bodies and over there a rotting horizon self-edited baby’s skull is a first division Of word thought texture (and) becomes a fire BURNing the tongue baby’s Mouth (is never full) so we squandered her fire terrified WATER risk--s memory sodden And without roads picking up conversations !say something feet running in the twilight (the atmosphere IS melancholy) bones remodeled body im)perfect in speech no more Scenarios spin ning cotton caulking the house without windows but with WINGs navigating to nurture seeds with hats and songs in t hum bs a twit ter without a voice vying forAttention Then we remained in the cellar hidden in the dark hole of golden leaves beaten into Tin knives at tracting the light and fine lines etched my hands reversing nature as another spoken wheel riding without direction careening through out STARS and planets eat the sun for memory there is no one who can please the numbers (zero) with its conceptual invention it ex(ists with)Out a partner A blanket covers the bones of (BAby chickens) from TH Ecir cular reasons of logic
Mary Kasimor has been writing poetry for many years. Her recent poetry collections are The Landfill Dancers (BlazeVox Books 2014), Saint Pink (Moria Books 2015), The Prometheus Collage (Locofo Press 2017), and Nature Store (Dancing Girl Press 2017). She has also been a reviewer of many small press poetry collections.
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