Mark Francis Johnson

Four Poems from Constant Hare

Anniversary of its cobbling.
No evidence of holiday was anywhere.
Pony could.
Not offer a ribbon.
The monster left within minutes.
Indifferent to robins watching open-beaked.
From dark wind.
But turned, noting.
The place looked raw.
As if. As.
If. But no. No!
Another monster had recently.
Recreated it.


RIP lusty barking at a crop of stones. Also, hours hiding in the quarry with the locality's lone horse, conversation with whose organs was a favorite pastime; the heart, for instance, substantially older than the other organs, had fascinating stories to tell of its youth in the long-extinct Eohippus, tiniest quadruped. Nowadays, however, being so small, the wittle heart could not offer its current sizable host more vigor than a coma required. The horse's misfortune (misfortune?) was Constant's good luck: unlike Christ, who noticed and resented the spear in his side, the horse dreamt quite peacefully of the hearing trumpet Constant introduced by a narrow incision—an operation he performed with a gentleness extraordinary in that century and in one so young, and of which one would have thought his rough conception had early and forever robbed him.


Knew also the thunder was not a piece of enameled tin or thin sheet of iron being shaken, or the remarkably effective thunder-cart, or even a rabbit-hutch full of cannonballs. No silk ribbon was being scraped to produce the sound of wind, no dried peas, or the shot favored by her father, rattled in a box to produce the sound of rain. In all that world there was certainly not a single crash-machine. And the fork lightning was not a design scratched into black paint on glass behind which a few replaceable people feeling a strange and fleeting bond held up candles.


Sifting moments the obsidian tower
next an orange tree imperfectly reflected
autumnal smudges, the husband face.
His skin was orange and she asked why

and his darkest area, no capital, moved
up, onto his forehead? She looked at the orange

of which this his face was

the reflection. Insects and patches of rot
and on the forehead the mouth,
a beetle, gnawed the stem. It gave way-
grandly, to my mind, ending the mo

Mark Francis Johnson lives in Philadelphia, PA, where he sells rare books and vinyl, curates a series of experimental film/performance, and hosts monthly poetry readings, all out of his space, Hiding Place.

He has work forthcoming in Blackbox Manifold, Holly White, and EOAGH.
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Blogger Arkava said...

cool stuff Mark. especially Knew also the thunder

12:52 AM  

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