L o g a n F r y —

Suspect in a Tempest

 If a leaf lifts, then the sky greens.

Then the paler veins look riper then.

Then compressed against this air

are wrung rags fleckt with motor oil,

latex thinned and castor purpling

the worksink a matte mother-of-pearl.

If a sky greens, then the leaf lifts.

Then I, aiming to please, appease belief,

grift, chief, a leased armory. Ethos'

abuse had long concealed its trust in me.

Souse

Extrude the stance. Slip its thumb. Sunlight is the dust. The

less a feeling enters into feeling being felt for

better.

Dust a single sun’s love. There’s just the one. So it should be

valuable

but how to profit off it? Here’s the problem: what’s before us.

I’m going

to dunk your face in it.

A moat built round the

apple tree.

Glossy the

ripe apples

bob.

I opted not to dunk your face in it, yet. Did you feel I didn’t?

I’m hiding in front the tree’s plump trunk. I thumb its hide.

Fidgets tender

an anchor to a realer world.

The singe of a slap’s pain,

a tickle of the real.

There’s no harness for the bleak, unmemoried now I’ve sown.

The now’s no lasso either.

It lofts fine, sure,

but lands with no teeth,

lands

like water,

like a face

lands

in water.

Land’s

in water.

The undersides

bob upon the grim reality of faces shrieking into water angst

unkillable,

unkillable

the angels

permanently drowning

for our buoyancy. Mercy

to kill some times. The thought floats thru a healthy mind

like the line-hot

billow

of a bedsheet.

A ripple is a fold in air.

Kill a whole age

merely by folding up

a map, to slip

in a back pocket,

creases

getting frayed

upon the goodly motions of the flexing of the burly ass of god.

I’m hunkering

long after you

left, and I admit

I know you left,

knew it long

ago, knew it well before I took up here, so long the moat wasn’t

There then.

The apples love

their moat

and don’t go soggy

like I’d think you’d

think, but it’s just

me doing this think

and they stay crisp

and tart and luscious just the same, circling their tree all day

and night

and day

again, this I assume,

I haven’t tasted one.

Mascot on a Buoy

Another mechanical wave crest

wets my tail’s plush tip,

then refills the tin pail

on the shore for tips. I rise

and I trick and no sureness

wrests this hex from me.

I’m meant for a grin’s repository.

I anticipate as flux

the coming pelting.

I can’t avoid flaying

a me from my sense of self.

It’s hard, the heaviness. It’s wet,

but that’s not really it.

My noseholes secrete

this public notice

that I hold alone,

in sight as-sight

that I, no-one, can see:

the caged kids’ roofs just down

the beach. I have

a goof to do for them. Well not

for them but for these

kids up front, fiddling

restless with their iPads,

pulled fussy from

the beds they hate

for being too little used.

They’ll look up if

a genuine slip splashes them,

to toss the rotten clods

I set out to cause.

I’m here to do a goof for them.

Hoof in Fur

Neighborly, and incited, knots of worms

Turn on the gas,

That glottal known ablation.

Hoof in fur. Contours like a knife pretties.

Let it please. When the in is bulgy

And no more drips

Lick concrete, pretty it.

Take the terror from its top

Like cream, Going-on being

The skimming of a plane. Leaning

Into instrument, nascent

In no sense of things. Things being

Sometime quit to be enough, whatever

Enough is.

It doesn’t fucking matter.

And who, fucking, cares.

.