eratio poetic language issue seven, spring 2006

Nubia Hassan

Evening Moths, Morning Anchor

i'm so unfamiliar with painting
wrinkles on my restless skin.
why don't you stir me with kindness?
be good to the woven
muscle on my shoulders,
put the tips of your middling
fingers on my bony spine,
shake the dirt from my vertebrae,
tear it from my back,
mend it with your hands,
spend the evening
making me whole again.

or is it the plucking of strings
that I'm so unfamiliar with?
why don't you raise hands
to me and flick digits across
my cheeks making them into
waves of fleshy ocean.
pull out the sides of my mouth
and reach down deep for
the dim lamp light of a soul.
sift through piles of antiques.
an old heart, a soiled liver,
smoky lungs—an umbrella
lodged in my stomach!
grab it quick and open it fast
to hold you in the clear from
a family of moths who have been
feeding on my woman parts.
they will swarm into your open plane
because your light is bright.
I am drawn to you and anchored
to your hip while you spend the evening
pouring kerosene down the drain.

is it the settling colors on your face
that are so unfamiliar?
reds and rusts about my clavicle
blend like bleeding sunset pigments.
why don't you wash me with your hair?
smear the stain across my breasts,
ripen me with hue at my navel,
float me on the surface of the lake,
spend the evening dyeing the water.

It Will Be a Glorious Day

It will be a glorious day
when you melt into the earth.
I will no longer be forced to smell you,
eat you, eat your peeling skin,
make my eyes rabid and hungry
for your whole heavy body.
the body of a human,
so unbelievably human.
your yeasting meat of manhood
I want to bounce on my tongue;
you rise to the most heavenly
of all mountains.
the mothers of natures
are more than one.
I am sister to the forest
and we can have you bedded
in the land where you came from,
the body from which
your body came from,
my body, the body
you need to feed from.
it will be a glorious day when
you rest your soul on a rock.
I come pick it up, your hard heart
baked in the boiling sun.
my organic seeds buried
underground, unbound, are hounding.
you are a boasting richness of soils
and I seek to soak my oats
in the pot of a moaning mouth.
break the breads between my breasts;
an engorging feast of flesh and mind.
I ravish, I eat, I feed, I need your filth.
It will be a glorious day
when you take me by your teeth
and weaken me in the wetness
of your frothing yearn.
It will be a glorious day
when you eat from my bowl.

eratio

Jenna Cardinale

All Feigned

That fall it only rained
on Wednesdays,
because that was the day of the week I had to walk
the farthest.

Drained, I'd come home
to our small apartment, the last meatball
and you. I couldn't eat.
I felt chained.

Everything is called work,
I explained. I hauled my books
and some old letters
to the street, said I'd call.

I think I've been trained
to leave, to talk about it.
This year I'm trying
Montréal.

I read a list
of names
of women
printed on a sheet
of paper that has been
folded and opened
thoroughly.

Half the way
down, lover
is written beside a long name.

Below, girlfriend—
in a thick hand
in a dark ink.
But it reads like wife.

These names are unpronounceable.

No. No. That is
only partially
true.

It has become impossible
for me to see
your face
without a mirror—

But I know the sound
of you through
the records you left—

I listened to your least-
favorites before
ever looking for you—

The tight white tux
fattened and reddened
your head—

Does it look the same
now with gray hair
or less hair—

You smiled so
carefully for the photo—
I have no clear memory
of your crooked teeth—

Kenji Siratori

Amorphous-anthropoid

Although the blood of myself is road the murder area of the rhinoceros bar
embryo where hates heart of replicant brain myself of ADAM that
digital=vamps that changes dog that the output_war of the boy machine that
<vital> does the murder of micro in the skizophysical outer space of the
ant where does the infinite horizon of the drug that thinks about to vivid
desire mode be infectious does noise by the time the grief that the
chromosome that the callous city cell of the drugy angel that the beat of
myself caresses the disillusionment milligram clone-skin of yourself that
invades the blue womb of the artificial sun does battle goes mad is cruel
the lapse of memory line of the extinction cosmic PILL children dog of s
soul' ADAM that resolves I murder the digital nerve fiber of the drug
embryo that migrates the over there of the pupil where plays the plane the
brain of 1/8 insanity clonic end machine myself the artificial minus
molecule of the photosynthesis that <city> that the eternity that SEX is
copied toward the dogs of the soul-machines which gene war retrieves <exit>
that was cursed drop out reproduce <cadaver>!? The anarchy image of the
intelligence savage body fluid pure world drug embryo that was
betrayed_contrary=<boy> that asphalt transplants to the suicide machine of
the sun it is weaned<a boy::the vision of the desert of ADAM of the human
body that I record homosexual sexual in the last term of gene=TV the soul
like the ant of myself_secretes

eratio

continue

	Nubia Hassan Evening Moths, Morning Anchor i'm so unfamiliar with painting wrinkles on my restless skin. why don't you stir me with kindness? be good to the woven muscle on my shoulders, put the tips of your middling fingers on my bony spine, shake the dirt from my vertebrae, tear it from my back, mend it with your hands, spend the evening making me whole again. or is it the plucking of strings that I'm so unfamiliar with? why don't you raise hands to me and flick digits across my cheeks making them into waves of fleshy ocean. pull out the sides of my mouth and reach down deep for the dim lamp light of a soul. sift through piles of antiques. an old heart, a soiled liver, smoky lungs—an umbrella lodged in my stomach! grab it quick and open it fast to hold you in the clear from a family of moths who have been feeding on my woman parts. they will swarm into your open plane because your light is bright. I am drawn to you and anchored to your hip while you spend the evening pouring kerosene down the drain. is it the settling colors on your face that are so unfamiliar? reds and rusts about my clavicle blend like bleeding sunset pigments. why don't you wash me with your hair? smear the stain across my breasts, ripen me with hue at my navel, float me on the surface of the lake, spend the evening dyeing the water. It Will Be a Glorious Day It will be a glorious day when you melt into the earth. I will no longer be forced to smell you, eat you, eat your peeling skin, make my eyes rabid and hungry for your whole heavy body. the body of a human, so unbelievably human. your yeasting meat of manhood I want to bounce on my tongue; you rise to the most heavenly of all mountains. the mothers of natures are more than one. I am sister to the forest and we can have you bedded in the land where you came from, the body from which your body came from, my body, the body you need to feed from. it will be a glorious day when you rest your soul on a rock. I come pick it up, your hard heart baked in the boiling sun. my organic seeds buried underground, unbound, are hounding. you are a boasting richness of soils and I seek to soak my oats in the pot of a moaning mouth. break the breads between my breasts; an engorging feast of flesh and mind. I ravish, I eat, I feed, I need your filth. It will be a glorious day when you take me by your teeth and weaken me in the wetness of your frothing yearn. It will be a glorious day when you eat from my bowl. eratio
	Jenna Cardinale All Feigned That fall it only rained on Wednesdays, because that was the day of the week I had to walk the farthest. Drained, I'd come home to our small apartment, the last meatball and you. I couldn't eat. I felt chained. Everything is called work, I explained. I hauled my books and some old letters to the street, said I'd call. I think I've been trained to leave, to talk about it. This year I'm trying Montréal. Register I read a list of names of women printed on a sheet of paper that has been folded and opened thoroughly. Half the way down, lover is written beside a long name. Below, girlfriend— in a thick hand in a dark ink. But it reads like wife. These names are unpronounceable. No. No. That is only partially true. Z It has become impossible for me to see your face without a mirror— But I know the sound of you through the records you left— I listened to your least- favorites before ever looking for you— The tight white tux fattened and reddened your head— Does it look the same now with gray hair or less hair— You smiled so carefully for the photo— I have no clear memory of your crooked teeth— eratio
	Julie Doxsee Continuum Attribute the color of blue trees to the blue bird atrophying in your skull. I negotiate rib & low lamp with the backdrop of ornaments swinging gently near your head. Envy me because I'm not ghostly. Along the scrim, you close in on the slow hand blackening electricity, wearing you as a night light. Materialique Judging from the surface, sharks had begun to see a cloud that evaporated years ago. With rat's voice the hollow log talks. No I didn't open my eyes to prove it. * Today the sun. Today the memory of dividing your name into six pieces and stirring it into seven bowls of milk. * The devil girl develops an auburn hairdo. She must truly be a devil girl. * Silhouettes on each brick, tiny people in the mortar interlock for warmth. eratio
	Jane Ormerod Animals (1) A tobacco brown cow with my grandfather's eyes Naked I'm hiding in a copse waiting for the visitors to leave This train is calling at Eastbourne, Polegate, Lewes and Plumpton I confuse bees with rats Rats in hand knitted sweaters bees with whip-top tails cunning cunning Hiding in the copse reducing stock to make the sauce velouté velouté Change at Lewes for all stations to Brighton My neighbours named their cat Ditto because it looked the same as the last one I am a waitress tripping on a linoleum floor (can I fetch you anything else before I leave?) I have written a novel and have some left over words: brandy, pebbledash, warrior's square, one rose radish Wivelsfield, Haywards Heath The boy playing golf takes not a pebble of notice He picks up the flag throws it in the direction of the track wanders over and begins to dig a hole East Croydon, Clapham Junction and London Victoria This is my call This is my fore This is my timber This train terminates here Here is the news Anyway a week later me, the fish out of water the budding the ferry the black eggs buried inside volcanic soil (a cure for every ailment) Despite the vinyl floor Despite the milk run Despite the wolf run and the millstone round my neck It is time you know to plead, pretend to become resolute and strip away our clothes with the grins of teenage stowaways Hummingbird sex Beak to bleak Sex was our speed dial Tell me, do you recall Alaska, bull songs the moon lounge review? Gangplanks, the distant shriek of apes or low wedge-heeled sandals? Rocks and lemons, tea infusions? Do you, my dear, remember anyone even the oldest even the youngest even . . . tell me . . . our skin? eratio Karyna McGlynn Animals Going to Hell Quiver gentle over their sins, taste the spring melt, nothing on the television about taboos or the mongrels which are unto our city— who is letting you go, ma chienne? Where do you crawl to die? The blossoms on the tomato-plants are falling fast this year, only June now. This morning here, a little girl came into our kitchen, a rifle through her empty leash. The Girls Were Drinking Boilermakers Soft as a curtain, each breast sat down in the snow. The hearse pulled into the street because, The man opened his fly because it was warm in the attic. Close by there was a thick belt of ice on the lake, on the television there was a picture: two tiny people preparing fondue. Metropolitan Cinnamon the old strip malls divided by old creeks, grey legos in a landscape of yarn today, the college holds its breath it's trying not to sneeze, everyone honks like a weird European car, they go: ub-ub-ub fubby-wubby tub-tub the dean eats chicken schwarma in secret her dark den smells like cold lilies and metropolitan cinnamon I am forever climbing these dingy stairs but I still can't explain synecdoche when you start from scratch the whole world is a farmyard: feedbags and ridiculous denim abound I pass my mouth over the side of this old strip mall and wait for one singular sensation, every little step I take, okay? eratio
	Matina L. Stamatakis Tame in time we will see arabesque as achromatic ----------no chain helix stretched---------- tumor/polyp bursting geometric cell debris (of Babylonian divine) 1. no acajou, petal, shade of palm to hide what was never benign of ribbed leaf dwarfish, cold of finger, curled at tip------------ 2. we are, are not circular amarelle trapped in adder's tongue, 3. no violet centrifuge rich with lavender spun from center as tempera , as tender flowers enveloped in death threat letters. 4. persistence color no more, no less than monochrome mouth of Venus and sable make lack with black and white revolve as Persian rug strip from meaning and being -----------soon------------- Leveled Want safflower we are lovers again distant 1981 to moons of Orion's belt disintegrating you whiten my brow (forehead perhaps?) microscopic longing we feeling erratic as microcosms deranged star-dust derange me want killer pesticide homicidal tendencies turning lust upon lust of action raise you make a breaker ace hole rabbit hole me out of orbit skin-shed head without motion action distant arousal of phantom lungs scream you dirty lover bleat nail prick sundered head you me deliverance leveled drive I can't love you lobed again thanks momma the flowers were nice a casket on a pyre our sun collapse that's how apocalypse feels in my/our/your flesh I wish I brought a star catcher for the moon tonight (the dirge) thanks for the reminder warming up silk sunflowers in the window you know the ones left on my doorstep Orion's belt stopped the current of love letters eratio
	Michelle La Vigne Trois Gymnopedies I. Tableau The old men talk of stones, filling the afternoon hours with the click-click of boules, ignoring their wives as the shadows lengthen. Young women fall from the sky, bones meeting dusty earth, the lengthening of their hair marking the days. II. The Letter Madam, (Your) orchard (is) loveless (the) pear impudent (the) dishes incomplete (appearing) broken falling (as if) (I) said long (shadows) then (before) as (we) fell (into) bed door (ajar) then just (as if) you (not me) listen hush III. In the Kitchen The rasp of cinnamon against the grater releases a cloud of dust ~ sandstorm in miniature. The table is laid and we are talking (but not really). Words swirl around meaning and in the center is loveless. Homage to the World (Response to an assemblage by Louise Nevelson) In the sweep of opulent neon canvasses bruised with cobalt blue and viridian, your black boxes could be mistaken for something less modern and urgent, something primitive or timid like a Lincoln Log house sitting quietly on the living room floor, silent witness to the baby spitting up mashed potatoes and then razed by a roaring vacuum. The black boxes, contagious ellipses formerly known as hatbox and table leg stand as wooden reef, as homage to milliners and butchers, housewives and saints. The wall stereophonic but mute, an excavation of noise, nervous laughter leaving the last echo inaudible. Although you stained and sanded and glued in the sixties shower of freedom and make love not war the boxes could be mistaken for a burned city or a mass grave- They have aged magnificently past your years and the hands that carried and assembled. A fort like the ones made of old blankets and chairs for children. A hiding place for secrets, gum wrappers, casings, duplicity. homage to hands that build illusion and leave behind the gift of perplexity. If you meant rational and absolute I believe you. If you meant ordered chaos or world being born, I still believe you. If your boxes were meant to carry the message of death . . . if they were prophetic but we looked past the burning city into the gleaming neon future- or if they were a puzzles we have failed to understand, then the mass grave ceases to affect, ceases to exist. The excavation of the soul and our nervous laughter leaving the last echo inaudible. eratio
	Sung-san Hong from a series, 3 untitled pieces a broken bridge infinite by definition a thought leading nowhere now arriving there say a sound has no meaning (to call silence by its name) yes an empty mirror being or being seen body bound to boundary between / be twain if you can't cross the same river twice you will drown in many * he was pointing and panting we think he was trying to say something rabble babbling parables featureless faces faceless figures how defectors factor into the occasion tear apart frontier trail they're the dent in your identity carnage of our age invasion as evasion they were ordered to excavate the building at once * she writes you letters from abroad as promised vowels first then consonants of those times I remember by wrote mere me than mirror the myriad for thoughts are naught a trope atrophying song to static sound to sand deaf to definition what U for C in the next century dividing sheep from sleep at the edge of knowledge eratio
	Kenji Siratori Amorphous-anthropoid Although the blood of myself is road the murder area of the rhinoceros bar embryo where hates heart of replicant brain myself of ADAM that digital=vamps that changes dog that the output_war of the boy machine that <vital> does the murder of micro in the skizophysical outer space of the ant where does the infinite horizon of the drug that thinks about to vivid desire mode be infectious does noise by the time the grief that the chromosome that the callous city cell of the drugy angel that the beat of myself caresses the disillusionment milligram clone-skin of yourself that invades the blue womb of the artificial sun does battle goes mad is cruel the lapse of memory line of the extinction cosmic PILL children dog of s soul' ADAM that resolves I murder the digital nerve fiber of the drug embryo that migrates the over there of the pupil where plays the plane the brain of 1/8 insanity clonic end machine myself the artificial minus molecule of the photosynthesis that <city> that the eternity that SEX is copied toward the dogs of the soul-machines which gene war retrieves <exit> that was cursed drop out reproduce <cadaver>!? The anarchy image of the intelligence savage body fluid pure world drug embryo that was betrayed_contrary=<boy> that asphalt transplants to the suicide machine of the sun it is weaned<a boy::the vision of the desert of ADAM of the human body that I record homosexual sexual in the last term of gene=TV the soul like the ant of myself_secretes eratio continue