ABOUT

CONTENTS

EDITORIAL

ARCHIVE

LAGNIAPPE

MAST

SUBMISSIONS

Three Poems
by Marie Buck


List in the Window from the World

Which is to hold out in the spilled entrails,
small ducks gathering at the dip      the twelve lost men bordering dead Adam, pewter from Eton squelches the wrong necks of new teams                  your ego-ed snapdragons prevent glossolalia           the marched archipelago of Rosicrucians who shout thanks              and whisper the tiny mare into its hut
find a new home on the Five and Ten
  the washed out dishes have snow, the helmet, the peacekeeper boy king        and so I salute you, Thomas,

          I salute you, Wintered Salt Shaker            pommel on the dawn lifter       everyday patron
renounces a gravity nature, swilled backgammon and the teething fear of Las Vegas,        my purpled
toes            the Manhattan inadept smiles in the rooftop
that tray of bony leaves takes its sheaves in the darkness of the house   the house is a pool of resuscitated water    my museum goitered in belts and preventative medicine shake the house rails            dulcimer
revolves heel-wise    past the dry wall         the buttered mistress hangs insects on the pole in preparation   she hides the lions in other rooms
            she shakes free her pocked Nazi hands    she the twister, the blank


Bitumen

Keeper. Dash. If F were a king it would find its way. Home in the back

porch, stabby doctor which stabs it, stabs twirling moniker. Not baby’s

daddy but blue deuce. Eat a cucumber. Listen to rain. The throat is a

body of water, a triumph to the clandestine sun. The sun pummels the River

God. No, it sucks at it. It sucks its head. It bangs the body. It takes the M

mouth of Herr Gott. Sheep is a number, a thought, a feeling.

Penumbra sicks you. Before I knew how to say ‘fuck you’ it was

‘fuck on you.’ This is what I thought it was.



Hunt the Thief

Fifteen Nissans ago. Don’t let’s bind you,
you fetching lovely. The chants culled from what’s
not been said. Microphone cunted in orange,
change machine wiped of its meaning, tin feet
left on the sidewalk. I am dusk, I am
Jesus, I am the frisked part of devils
which are stopped from glistening. The tongue in
your throat, you find, is not your own, just a
copy–& I am what describes tongue, blown
like dampness from my little room & its
yellow light. I’m told I am a circus.
In this telling, the animals gouge tents
& love fire. Apocalyptic, the
elephants tear at their own tusks, dawn &
the runaway to the circus, he is
returning home to nestle in the moth-
eaten prairie light & kisses of his
mother. I know you too are here, blinding
someone with a flashlight, killing the term
light because it is a dead & a hurt. Our
gripping will never fail, not together
& not without enough globs dying to
allow a coup. Within this coup are blessed
garnet holes. Within these holes a ladder
& a watch. Ladder & watch are fragments
of washed-out aether. Hold still, my plum love.
We will grip & die.