~ P.J. O'Rourke
Poems
The Animals in that Country
by Margaret Atwood
In that country the animals
have the faces of people:
the ceremonial
cats possessing the streets
the fox run
politely to earth, the huntsmen
standing around him, fixed
in their tapestry of manners
the bull, embroidered
with blood and given
an elegant death, trumpets, his name
stamped on him, heraldic brand
because
(when he rolled
on the sand, sword in his heart, the teeth
in his blue mouth were human)
he is really a man
even the wolves, holding resonant
conversations in their
forests thickened with legend.
- In this country the animals have the faces of animals. Their eyes flash once in car headlights and are gone. Their deaths are not elegant. They have the faces of no-one.
masks ShaperWithin
Chipmunk Squirrel Costume Party
by Jason Bredle
In a black forest, God is birthing a beautiful
cocker spaniel named Corky. The sun
has set. Evil rests its wings through distant
wires, which are not so distant after all.
A boy jams a spoon into a tree. His family
is fighting about world politics again.
In a black city, God is birthing a beautiful
cocker spaniel named Corky! The sun
has set? Evil rests its wings through distant
pines, which are not so distant after all!?
¡A boy jams a spoon into a mouth! His family
is fighting about world politics again!!!
In a poem, Tanikawa Shuntaro lies
under a quilt with the woman he loves,
with a woman who is in love with another man.
Next door, God is birthing a beautiful
cocker spaniel named Corky. The sun
has set. Evil rests its wings through distant
prairies, which are not so distant after all.
A boy jams a spoon into an eel. His family
is fighting about world politics again.
In Santa Monica, I accidentally bleed myself
with a razor. God is birthing a beautiful cocker
spaniel named Corky in the back of an Escalade.
Evil rests its wings through distant hills
which are not so distant after all. A boy
jams a spoon into a silicone breast. His family
is fighting about world politics, again?
Because we break apart, I consult the eight
ball: outlook not so good, says it.
In Mexico City, God is birthing a beautiful
cocker etcetera. Corky places glasses
on his tail and loses thousands of dollars,
infuriating God and the family. A boy jams
a spoon into a bowl of Corn Flakes and evil
rests its wings distantly, but then, not so.
I am wet and in Zócalo standing, wacky adventure
having, surrounded by gray architecture.
Evil is all around. A boy will bike
toward a lake with a girl he will love forever.
In a black city, God is birthing a beautiful
cocker spaniel named Corky. Evil
moves its wings through distant pines, which
are not so distant, it seems. In a black forest,
God is birthing a beautiful cocker spaniel
named Corky. It is gray, yet not so. Evil
shifts its wings through distant wires, which are not
so distant. A boy jams a spoon into a fire.
His mother is inside-out again. So, the son
of the devil will rise from the world of politics.
I am Federal Expressing my lungs to everywhere.
Dear Mom, have you received my blood? It only
recently appeared from under a pile of forests,
from under a pile of black, black forests.
m. agnes-cecile
The Idiot's Guide to Faking Your Own Death and Moving to Mexico
by Jason Bredle
Every few seconds I check the Bible
to see what Jesus is saying about me. The answer
is always nothing. Sometimes
he's condemning me to eternal damnation,
but usually nothing. Tonight I am alone,
wearing my sex shorts, adrift amongst
the black suburban pools of eternal damnation.
No, I have not been in love. Yes,
I have been in love. I am speaking the language
in which no and yes mean the same, in which
apricot and goodbye mean the same.
I am remembering the kudzu of the awful season,
sitting with you beside the swamp for the last
time and neither of us knowing it was the last
time but yes the glass was hello and dragonfly.
Was it a blessing? They say so in this language.
Others say this language is dying, or already
dead. I speak it, nonetheless, while eating
apricots in the evening of eternal damnation
where you yell at the map and cut your wrist
and there is a darkness here that I have only shared
with my cat, like that guy in the movie who writes
graphic erotica and goes crazy. One says
pain near the black pool of everything,
my back is covered with wax. Every few
seconds I check the Bible to see what Jesus
is saying about me. The answer is always nothing,
aside from the time he lambasted the outfit I wore
to the People's Choice Awards. A green tuxedo.
Tonight, I am adrift in the suburb of the black sky,
I am speaking the language in which love
and apricot mean the same, in which pool
and death mean the same. I said goodbye
in a suburb like this, years ago. I said
goodbye in a suburb like this, years ago.
According to Hercules, if we make an angel
out of ourselves, that is what we are; if we make
a devil out of ourselves, that too is what
we are. See, this is what I am getting at.
It is the awful season and I am speaking
the language in which violence and God mean
the same, in which blood and dragonfly mean
the same. I am in the orchard of eternity
picking the goodbyes of damnation, I am licking
your dragonfly blood and speaking the language
in which pain means hello. A black pool,
a green sky. That is to say, each moment
without you is a vacant airport, each moment
without you is a glass apricot. Every few seconds
I check the Bible to see what Jesus is saying
about me. The answer is always nothing. Except
today, it's a bunch of weird stuff about how
I'm falling into a black pool in some suburb,
maybe Palatine or something, and just like that,
I've gone forever. I know! That's what I thought
too. This is the story, but in this language, this
is not the story. I am eating red ice,
harvesting a field of knives. I am speaking
the language in which heaven and earth mean
the same, in which sky and white mean the same.
O Lord, I made this dragonfly for you. Even
if you do not listen to it, just know, this
is how I have always felt about you. And I
am possessed. And I am a fatalist. Do you see
these bruises? Do you see these bruises?
They are a sad bouquet. They are a beautiful
scrapbook. I am floating. I am in love.
I am dead. On a perfect night, my back is covered
with wax. O Violence, but I did not want this hello.
O Lord, I made this dragonfly for you.
Even if You do not listen to it, just know, I made it
only for you.
Mature Content
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