Gregory Bem

The Rumble, the Crack


The rumble
the              crack
of the motors on the horizon
and paranoia on the rocks
that I do not stand on.

There are those beings I look at
and wish to sit near.

There is the hunger
to be next.


               the undulations of skin
rubbing skin, skin rubbing

the deal is sealed
the wind is calm
the air is fine

Inimical trees,
shadowed ways,
hot noodle remains.

Water stupor,
grass reeds available
like alcoholic, are happiness


Phlegm and chemicals
did not sort out
did not               obey

time travel and decay
new bodies,
new and shapeless


Turned into crystal
and wings overhead

Shouting, steam
rises and coughs out
all the things.

Insides are
hardest to keep.

Turning soil
is language.


(the flutter of leaves or flower petals)
(that branch out towards water or sky)
(one or the other, infinity is bound)

Musty traps:
Cycles in imagination
Definition of “dawn”


witness the cruel lamplight,
a defogging of all
motion into the blurred

vision blurred

witness the cheap
witness the murky stew
witness the gums’ disease
(from non-brush)

a plague of dust
gathers its height
during my fingers’
snappings; I notice
in the silence after.


truth serum somewhere
abound the train

Destination: clarity.
Clarity, the clarity, the clarity

Syllables become phases:
Early morning tokens


gut-grimace worries
champions of night
on the sun paths

where has water flowed?
where has the sleeper vented?
do the children lack suspicions?


bearing slump vision
behind two lamb eyes

wielding a starry fist
with gem fingers

owning a chandelier appetite
donned in gruesome pink tights

a challenger approaches
speaking in the tongues
of geckos and bats.


Let minds wander soon
through the evangelical rot.

Paintings to be
scavenged ideas

I don't know you,
I don't know you,
I don't know you,

Sequences of images
Places unknown,
Sprawled out across
not enough kick,

Not enough swish
liquid douses flames,
flames douse liquids,


beings arise                     from
                the clandestine
open-sores and greedy pus
shapes inside toenail palettes,
and the recognition of hearts.

I look forward to nine hours of sleep
and a broken boomerang watch
that will not stop ticking, cannot stop
                               reminding me
of the spaces in between,

the                                    righteous endeavors
(paying tribute
to monsters
a golden leash)


with silky pants
with eyebrows
with red eyes,
with seeping
with tubes
filled up

Words fall down into a column like they are
filling a coffin standing upright,
The marsh is black too, the
words supreme under the sky.
The being is powerful enough
to be deceived.
The sky is a problem.

Power is enough
to be cured

Darkness and tendrils,
markings and wants:

Goodbye, old moon, sick sage
Goodbye, old dirt, black backside
Goodbye, old lamps, glistening
Goodbye, old us, blind taunting and sun-lit


Bring us back
to before, with
the breathing.
There will be.

It lingers on the tongue
Lips and cheeks like                a blast radius
                                                         or           a crater
uncontrollably, movement to bring down
a castle and the sand or a body to a bed.

a meteor would dash
through the energy
of a clear, open sky.

Gregory Bem writes: "In May of 2008 I graduated from Roger Williams University in Rhode Island with a BFA in Creative Writing. During my undergraduate career I spent time studying Sociology and Literature, and also assisted with the student radio station as Music Director and cofounded the student literary magazine that is currently called Gewgaw. I most recently moved down to Philadelphia, Pennsylvania after having large instinctual urges to leave New England. Residing in this cultural center I spend my time working for a gourmet grocer and a corporate bookstore, while also writing for Origivation, a free music magazine, and Rain Taxi, a literature newspaper out of St. Louis. My work has appeared in Metromania, and on the blog In Memory of My Feelings."

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