[W]hen a man is capable of being in uncertainties, mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact and reason – John Keats, Letter to George and Thomas Keats – December 1817.
The fog fades over the bay on New Year’s Day.
Pale blue surface drinking light. Flat
and glassy with a few ducks bobbing. I walk from
the Lesner Bridge to the Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel.
Crisp as the calendar. Wispy clouds.
They’ve wrapped the giant supports in bolted
metal and weatherproof paint, but there’s no
such thing as permanence. Ask the poles
with no pier. Ask the dunes. Ask proud-fool
sailors about trusting the sea. The answer is laughter.
The answer is existence as long as Keats allows
and we believe in the concept known as
the second of January.…
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After Jericho Brown & Terrance Hayes
Undergrads wade through the scorching afternoon
clutching sweating six-packs of cheap beer.
Clutching sweating six-packs of shitty beer,
white shirtless undergrads climb a ladder.
Shirtless white undergrads climb a ladder –
frat boys are drinking on their roof again.
frat boys are drinking on their roof again,
sound system pumping n-words & bass rumbles.
The sound system pumps n-words & bass rumbles
through open windows, backyards & boulevards.
Through open windows, backyards & boulevards
party music spreads hate & violence.
Party music spreads hate & violence –
undergrads wade through the scorching afternoon.
– Nathanael O’Reilly…
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Growing up, my favorite movie was Gigi.
Vincente Minnelli’s Paris
as a breathtaking canvas
filmed in a brutal heat wave.
The director had jangled nerves,
then whooping cough,
then he was bitten by a swan.
On screen: joie de vivre.
Colette brought to life
with Maurice Chevalier & Leslie Caron.
As a kid, I read Chevalier’s risqué memoir
three times.
Minnelli was born in a tent show.
Too shy to be an actor, he designed costumes
his father thought were ‘never good enough.’…
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This letter concerns your long unused eyes:
Be warned—while still seeing, you may vanish—
quick as light slips past its closed door. Your sigh
can’t kill darkness. Read these words now. You can
think through them later, by lost, cool lamplight—
Watch the letters with concerned eyes. Don’t use
fingers on this page. Follow, strict, left to right,
quick. Light fades behind that door. Sigh and you’ll
miss them the way you miss slyly thrown balls—
think later, swing now. Then learn to light lamps
while you can make out shapes you’ve known. Night falls
fast, like fingers counting strict time. Write left
handed now, read with broken eyes. Cast looks
past words you’ll miss, like the lost balls you’ve thrown
at diamonds you’ve never seen.…
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She’s looking at something light—
………………..not the tree trunks on the right
……something on the left.
Say, sunset. Say, a salty breeze.
I dab white petals over the orange half disk,
……white out the breeze and shadows too,
…………smear grape, scales, and lemon juice all around
…………..the potatoes and potholes of her back.
(Reach inside her torso,
……the colors would darken instantly,
…………the bristles would spread, the wrist would ache.
Take a bite and it would taste like cotton candy
…………before catching in the throat.)
The trunks are too skinny. The paint is drying—
……………………………………….…………Time is running out.
Anyone can paint appearances—
……it’s not more difficult than lighting up a sky with whorls.…
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Trains don’t collide but intersect
when / where she stopped leaving early
and I stopped not working.
Work? Left me without stories.
It’s not amnesia but condominium life,
lights fluorescing off stage,
desert sky with half the stars.
My God, it’s full of snow!
When one is 1 plus the product
of all lesser primes,
where to hide but the imaginary line?
– Kenton K. Yee
Author’s Note: Recently, I’ve been thinking about poetry in revision. One way this poem can be read is as an ars poetica. “Snow Condominium” views a poem as a condominium of snow that’s being reimagined and restructured. …
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sketch the ridge waiting
for sunset, light beaming
behind cumulonimbus,
……………but I can’t get the trees right.
wildfires glare from the west
shroud us in haze, but the blue shadow
of sierra still towers
…………………………when the sky blackens,
…………………………the stars pierce
…………………………& I still haven’t seen one fall
finish the sketch from a photograph,
the memory of actually being
just out of reach, perfect days
blur at the edges.
…………………………sketch in pen
…………………………it forces deliberation
……………where you hesitate, where you’re firm,
……………trace it all from the beginning,
…………………………………..enamored with the possibility
…………………………………..that ink will bleed
…………………………………..when coffee spills
……………………………..I carve
the layer of dirt on my skin
underglaze on clay,
…………………………trace a finger
…………………………a print on sunburn
…………………………the light lusters.…
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