Jared Chipkin


I would not write it if 
I was not hopeful,
just because
the creations 
being dark(as they are)
does not mean 
there is(is) not any light
                  (it is how I see the light...),

I do not need any movie(still) to tell me that

                 (someONE else's light),
                 (SOMEone else's dark),

something else's night-
all else
is freezing right.


Roosters resounding,  
two lucks
of poets: even.
Grounds given-

                 facing south
                   veering west
winter's pale autumnal 
light building.

August Sky

My holy man of this turgid I; ole' wormin' fishman--

so 'tis a worm by and in deed, tangerine 
puke yet fading...

Hellish, let stink! Fickleful and derelict a-'lectrically 'cross crystalline,

'cross deciduosity. 
'Cross a synapse of bunk 

slumberin' oceanic barracks,
troo' and star-spoked with

'venge-ear christening, wan-
at-point, fatalistic and, knit-wet drapery: 

weight-baited, aqua-
translucent to this distilled diaphanous day-

space for bane-wending, but
weather-bound by a hash o' lil' delivered 

quarter-grape, if fool, venus gestalt...

O august high!

O knuckle-bragged and bothering!

O august sky!

O crustaceous wavering in the southern.

O august high!

O boweavil serengeti states!

O august sky!

O parchment above the wily-stilted scorch!

O august high! O fear-comin' northern gaseous giants!

O august sky!

Jared Chipkin works and lives in Lower Manhattan. He has work in the most recent issue of Poetica Magazine.

His new website: http://www.notapoem.com/
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