Quickest Way from Point A to Point B Is
chat point shell.
The rivers which body; stuns, with silver gun-
Flow. A marked tunnel in the breeze of floating lights.
We all know: the drill. Ha ha poo poo tunnel vision Screw you!
Is not that how it goes? I remember the burnt
The recipes for gunfloat. Breezy wiry pistolfly
Direct trajectory of flight: luminous bullet line
Focus is all there is. From the bar to the jukebox and back
There is none a grove of chickens
Weezery bustin apple orchard pickin fight
Pick them apples off the shelf/put on yer hoods and run to Hell
You and your sisters gather round/hear that bubbling growing sound
Ha ha hardeeleehahaha
My papa made a fire and we all sat around it. We sang.
It felt so good to open up our mouths and sing so loud it tumbled
the sky and the benches at the baseball park and the very Heavens
we were told are untouchable.
Freak that! We didnt believe it anyway. We dont believe
everything were told. Were
like that: ungullible.
And proud of it.
Mr. Souter at the school herded us all up to the matches, tied us
to gunposts and left us there, seemingly as targets for others of
our parents who had a rage problem. He said it real sllloooowww
like rrrrraaayyyyge. By the time he completed the word,
the guns were loaded
& the tombs were set
the definition of hair is inorganic matter, like salt or cotton.
The song is the most desirous of vehicles, said the reddish-blue haze
of the gun-
The orange-red stun of the blast: the pampered soft gray of the gun
barrel: the hint of
How many shells do we have inside this one floating balloon? How many
casings? The lives of the sun,
the target and the roof
made plain by love to stand on its rear hoofs and aim
a lucky horseshoe pillared to the test
a ladder made right by mortal adjustment; just finding plank
in the hollow of axis and triangle
its red stomach filled with haze & glow
the shape of it
pointed toward Heaven:
and all its globs.
When drawing a circle take the one spindle of the implement and circle
around the fixed point of the other.
The Wide and Open Seas
In the dialogue
Spelled little pieces of web,
lath and joist, lumbering, water-marks on wood
difference between solitude, absence)
in the truss
the hidden face of a bluish corpse:
The tore&mented wander
a blessing sail on top of their heads : as if they were saying
me of my sails
I am cudgel pull
rank on me & flee
Then she said, the mother, put on your coat it
the harmful are after
I am violencehidden savagery in boneless shell
and rats later borne.
Born of rats haze strict liquor intake on the ornate dressing
A huge red-tinted
carafe & two cut-crystal glasses
,looked like wedding rings in the dazzled light,
this is meals & tubes & metros &
* Gotham ~ remember that?
We are an island a big blue and brown stream a target for boats and
and fierce adherence
and taped to innards resembling arthritic joints
a mother walking alone rusts , styles a tunic in the late night
Patrick to wear : he is her forty-year-old son
grime glitter in the streets there are diamonds
in the sidewalk
if you look closely and walk softly hitting dully with the
of your foot
you wont break them then, youll see instead
water pouring out of the subways out of tunnels in from the
youll wear your jewelled bonnet
the glare of floodlights as they open her up again
and look for the swollen tooth
Arielle Guy is a poet and fiction writer whose
work has appeared in Zyzzyva,
Prosodia, and Cyanosis, and is upcoming in 6X6 and lungfull!.
After graduating from the New College of California Poetics program,
she has moved to New York. Her chapbooks include various collaborations
with photographers, and a graphic novel forthcoming entitled "Maia
Sierra's Blood Journals."