Andrew K. Peterson
Andrew K. Peterson is the author of three full-length poetry collections, most recently Anonymous Bouquet (Spuyten Duyvil, 2015). His 2017 chapbook The Big Game Is Every Night was mailed to the White House alongside other publications from Moria Books’ politically-based Locofo Chaps series as collective gesture against the current administration. He edits the online lit journal summer stock, and lives in Boston.
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You’ll Know When You Get There what does the journey teach the question of what does satori shroud the question of what did i forget to pack the question of                                              universal consciousness                               a loud fart inna breadbasket                                                             bigger than                                                             a breadbasket space between whoever they are, wherever they need to go and who they do go with the worm moon bells make sad watchers sew dog-eyed corsages to dance partners’ wrists mid-hoedown while puddles ring doseydows the price tag strung to a stringless harp melodies               still lift               in silent offering there’s no question of that :: the melodies still lift no question of LOKA               realm or abode Poem for a Disappearing Roommate for Nathan Child The mad old monk has abandoned Your star that looks like a poker game One prong on its lock turns white Lone rock on the lawn boo forever You’re so beautiful it’s starting to rain in the Appalachians, we plant a champion living tomb, in the soon green ground The sum, for mouths, of these wishes You don’t need to see anything out to seek anything out of the ordinary. Today is not an attempt at misrepresentation. Anchors must still be built with skill. Nobody just doing things where they’re going who knows they’re not where they are. Mountains belong to people who love them. That you’ve succeeded in putting them there. Here’s to embarrassment even lonelier than snow When dawn dawns on me and on dreams of the ottoman cloud empire’s incline should I call today loneliness, lucidity or black roses for a blue lady fancy pants The word I forgot just now – yes With joist the truth of endless articulation Knocked back to the zipper of the shadows if you try fighting magic with logic a beautiful thing spreads beauty all around if you risk facing your captors alone a friend comes over to the house, if you think a page’s the disguise a mountain is banjo muscle, nothing but oceans beyond us the distance you imagine if you decide it’s too risky, turn from the bridge which is seldom free. leaves, all the dirt in the furrows, the river of song: seek them for the question. Still with some unforeseeable break in the frost of the last chrysanthemum for its own sake, for going on a suit put down to the ground, a favor for which to be forever Hormone a costume swirls kittens yawn and attack cinema dipped tide scheming with city heat brawling hinged sores moan smoked amber + black fig across this winter skid dissolves, wisp erred an as yet not co-authored milk asleep on midnight’s achromatic knife star-encrusted shell                glissando                               slow gull Gold in Skeleton chord orchid ‘s lone skid in orchard cherried suffers of thought –                o curl                my yurt for                a honeycomb                intuit – a force devoured meat of cold rain struggling the rippled- out lightning twist                along the mystic in 6/8 time steeps what i forget moves the sun above your hospice gives through snow’s skylight melt its grace, grace i thank to know thank the thanks the goodbyes the have-been-knowns Never Be Royals The road from Providence is lit with many perils Bouncing oceans, burning from new moons Old stars mixing with snow and indiscreet Leaning, my faulty debutante flair, pale and fault- Less loose roost and more abandoned rope Of the snake lady, her diamonds bright fires In marshmallow clover bustling fancy Free among trifles reefs glistening Riffs Lou Reed Stole     i.e. The Black Angel’s Death Song From Getz and Gilberto Vivo Sohando Countering faults with offerings The road to Providence is lit with petty morals At the limit this too timid limb Priestess Who knows no compromise, the skull and rose Are equals, line august roads along these low low lands Revelation “I had a thought that I could change” – Doug + Jean Carn Ok here comes grief winter, the metaphor, fails , egg-hued mulberry and brown Winter, the distant bodied wolf’s claw blue displaced, fails & did feel regret,                & did burn sweetgrass, salt sage As an asking The birch shell upfalling through cloud-sheaths welled upon the rainblown sea Cutting through attachments a whirlwind’s impossible hymn – The silence inside me is named               Unfolds from a wreathed galaxy poppied to the take : touch-chosen laughing kelp ring in the teeth of a rose-bladed rudder
Andrew K. Peterson is the author of three full-length poetry collections, most recently Anonymous Bouquet (Spuyten Duyvil, 2015). His 2017 chapbook The Big Game Is Every Night was mailed to the White House alongside other publications from Moria Books’ politically-based Locofo Chaps series as collective gesture against the current administration. He edits the online lit journal summer stock, and lives in Boston.
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