the paradox of bodies
is she should rise
when i am ready to
get down on my knees
in a retrograde motion
of stars flipping over
its not so much that i don’t know
what i’m doing as its that she doesn’t
know that i don’t know what i’m doing
oranges between my legs are telling
time as if it is a truly juicy story
about how ball lightning can thrust
through solid masses without effect
experimentation is best left to the women
able to pencil their eyebrows back in place
after playing with each other’s chemistry sets
an important aspect of scientific validity is repeatability
we should do this again sometime
her loose wound feels
a sense of togetherness
with the last stitch now falling
in place where the saw’s teeth
held the once noisy crowd rapt
white rabbits sit sleep over
style, gently they stroke the
cricks from the pink pinnas
in each other’s floppy ears,
their tiny black eyes locate
the magician still on stage
the ring of fire rolls free of
its mount; a thin ashy path
ends at the smoking coat tail
where the ring bit the showman
with its flaring baby teeth
a lion stands there staring at him
as varicolored scarves disappear
near the edge of its mouth until
all that’s left of them is the lion
one pigeon comes out
of its hiding place with such confidence
that nobody is surprised when all the pigeons
come out of their hiding places
locks of hair dangle, & blood drops drip
to the floor for seconds while she picks
up a wand, which she uses to back him into
a corner of his hat where no one can peek…
“The beautiful swan sailed gracefully overhead, perfectly unaware of the malignity he was exciting in the muscle which served the Duck for a heart”
-Concerning Ugly Ducks
Love is all of the things people are not.
People are all of the things love is not.
So love is hard to find between two people.
The difference between fire and love is
how the tongues arise and where the ashes settle down.
An unlucky man who knew the description of his perfect other
was a superhero wading down through the clouds
found romance looking out over the city
as he dropped from a building.
Though fruit behooves each bug to be perfect, who
can fault the cockroach roving about the hothouse,
letting its beard quake before the horde of gourds,
the sweat sagging on the sides of a strawberry wall,
the hairy peach meat swollen whole around each stone?
Death is all that beauty needs to stop shivering. Let a spark nestle
snugly in the forest floor, a flaming redness tickle the pine needles
into restful black curls that shall sleep in pieces, a drake escape to a
place far cooler than the flesh knot passing for its feathery heart.
As all perspires, wilts, expect there is frightening enlightenment
in the duck’s exodus to the salty pond from the pursuing young couple
grown tired with elated blazing beneath their tacky picnic blankets.
The comely girl and homely boy
glanced past his ordinary face
and her mandatory warmth
to spot a wildness between themselves
in the form of a green tail getting away,
and the waterfowl, certain of what it interrupted,
swam off with courage in its heart to ask out a swan.
KJ likes to make poems a lot.
Editorial Note: (Please Read Closely Before Submitting)
To submit to Poets’ Basement, send an e-mail to CounterPunch’s poetry editor, Marc Beaudin at firstname.lastname@example.org with your name, the titles being submitted, and your website url or e-mail address (if you’d like this to appear with your work). Also indicate whether or not your poems have been previously published and where. For translations, include poem in original language and documentation of granted reprint/translation rights. Attach up to 5 poems and a short bio, written in 3rd person, as a single Word Document (.doc or .rtf attachments only; no .docx – use “Save As” to change docx or odt files to “.doc”). Expect a response within one month (occasionally longer during periods of heavy submissions).
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