Four Poems
by Ben Doller

big deference betwixt throwing things and throwing things away

alight, guys, our faces plaused
unimmediate but right now much
more stormer. Go breathe over
that faithless morguetrain, if it's
handling shrugging often you've
gotten into. Lately. That is.
When you throw something,
it goes right in the air.

I have myself to thank you. With
cake caked without the mold, but still
measurably tunneled. No less
than this much here can not be here no more.
Rightsideupcake, per user.

mounted, right where everyone
sees. Channel spectacle. And
it has been spotted before, hurting,
mattress in the middle of the road,
lamplash. As if it has.
When you throw something away,
it goes elsewhere.

But I guess I gotta fail. Best for the
electricity to get out its own way.
But this will only improve the storm.
Don't even go there.


A pointing habit. Over there over there.
A laser pointer. A light, a ray.
A sunhead, shinyeye.
A question of a center, of a question.
But I don't speak semaphore
no more. Gravity can bend it.
A weight.
A stick of space. A beam of zilch.
A swivelhead. A reverse trend
in cellular conglomeration. A cult.
An inner target. An origin disorder.
Send the word
send the word.
The telegram. Missile command.
Compulsive pointing. To the point
of meditation. A future gesture.
A black dog has lost a yellow tennis ball.
Mission control.
Massive ego.
A grave.
Over there.
A men.
The black dog has lost the tennis ball.
The yellow ball, the dog can't find.
This dog lost that ball.
An infinite finger.
A sunbow. I threw it / I lost it.
Such a dandy / No one understands me.
A hand shake.
A maniac, pointing.
An inverse church.
A west west east. Hysterical pointing.
Two gloves to a stick.
Fanatic tennis.
The lob. A head. A sunder.
An attendance lesson.
A handgun
and we won't come back
till it's over over there.


Might I be so blunt to as
May be I so bold into

truncate foreign
particle quest

Might I suggestion
calling mine
sweeping general

general hospice

those there
then this there
more than enough ovens for this signal kitchen
equal might

totally pounder

at least five

big hits

the shining
exam the new leaf festival
maestro mas

Pardon my english

officer bag
of touching towers
particle axle

Pardon et me
the suggestive

2nd dimension
billboard the suggestion
being interrupt
the particular movement


O permissive museum

allocate a medium supply
cause if you will


sometimes characters
miss a mass
nair party
or bar joke

or a night in a car

respective yours
pardon the syntax
negotiate free
additives yes!

Let me show you my
innard show

Shall I show you out
To the mandible

Four legs walk on in

Welcome to the mister
Welcome to the other
Wrong the dance


it's just not my job
to make the earth again
to celebrate my astonishment
at the leaf
as it all goes wrong
leaf by leaf

to make deals
with the kinds
who might let me inside
once more
the yellow house
the shade under
the yellow house
where there is
a bin that says

what's the use in
the saying bin

I can be responsible
but it's not my bag
to cuss the alphabet
into the other shape than line

to timefold the incredible
two-thousand mind
to drink the money
til my throatface turns
ever whiter

more de trop
I can be held

if I were a yegg
I'd blow the door off
a safe

one single crappy leaf

it's just not in me
to do the pun
or the wag

even when someone shows me where
to put my teeth in
I can't possibly dance

I didn't invent
the chickenstrip

I merely appreciate
the chickenstrip

by enclosing it
a house chewing
on a family


Ben Doller (né Doyle)'s first book of poems, "Radio, Radio" was selected by Susan Howe as winner of the 2000 Walt Whitman Award from the Academy of American Poets. His second book, FAQ:, is forthcoming in 2009 from Ahsahta Press. He has taught in West Virginia, Iowa, Ohio, and California. Wherever he lives, he lives with his wife, Sandra Doller, (née Miller) and their boxador, Ronald Johnson.