Skip to main content

from the secret of why we first took to our feet (rough)

cruel spring is on the way and my savage old identity is
in the making, three years of foreign lands, my action is mental,
don’t jump outta airplanes ‘cept in my mind
get natural, get funny, get off, get
your tail
in a hairspin, tis insanity hence sane

ached-up falliable nautical
hot-splotch rollerwheels &
& a dummy
tit to shut
the trap

got bucked &
got juiced
in the lands of the dead

freedom and forgetting
are twin cousins
on the back
of an elephant

certified face full of holes

fear less
than clear

can’t find my knees
on a flight to Belfast
to bury the dead
all kinds of physics at work
in the air

to trace the heat of fingers doesn’t always proceed
from body to body

there is a kind, they say, a kind
of wheel turning and a new song
on the wings

kids dropped his crayon on the airplane
my wife was x-rayed in crayons

toothcombing the mindbreaks
with a dead shoulder
thrown into the system


Popular posts from this blog

poets reading poets

There are on A now: Andrews, Antin, Apollinaire, Ashbery

A project from the Atlanta Poetry Group. Check it:

The Poetry of Tao Lin

Another Ireland by Robert Archambeau

This review really hit it for me. I recently read Maurice Scully's _Livelihood_ and Geofrey Squires _Untitled and Other Poems_ is on deck (I love that baseball term. It is baseball, right?)

I think this is from The Nortre Dame review, but I found it via goofle (I mean google).

Another Ireland: Part Two
Maurice Scully, The Basic Colours. Durham, UK: Pig Press, 1994.
Geoffrey Squires, Landscapes and Silences. Dublin: New Writers' Press, 1996.
Catherine Walsh, Idir Eatortha and Making Tents. London: Invisible Books, 1996.

By Robert Archambeau

I began the first half of this article (Notre Dame Review #4) by mentioning some of the limits to the legendary hospitality Ireland has shown to its poets. If you arrive in Ireland from any point of departure outside of Eastern Europe, you will indeed find a public far more willing than the one you left behind to grant poets the recognition all but the most ascetic secretly crave. However, this hospitality has never extended to Irish poets w…