Joshua Ware

 

 

Poem Beginning With a Line by Lisa Jarnot

 

Like the radios, the songs, the poems and the stars
we all pursue the air
on waves of invisible urgency
An amalgam of idioms composed in static rhythm
word and light One room separates itself from the world
with red curtains another room with green
Both colors twist with the wind
Jaundiced planets yellow the night
and an apartment with no hallways
Certain images are indelible
if only for the feelings we attach to them
A bouquet of senile flowers
adorns the nightstand Their scent accumulates
It rains inside of me

 

 

 

Your Body Devours Itself

 

I've been practicing new ways of saying
My life is one mistaken hallucination after another
into the bathroom mirror
inhaling the shower's mist
and exhaling umber clouds flecked with clay
This is not an aesthetic contrivance
but an instance of my unsuitability for daily living
I see no less than five faces in my reflection
only one them mine
The others are warped antennae
transmitting my failures through electric waves
It's best not to place emphasis on eternity
when your kitchen's filled with perishables
Those avocados won't last forever
If you fast long enough
you will see strange sparks of light
through your peripheral vision
in the moment right before
your body devours itself
This is probably not the best way
to access transcendental states
but let's pretend
that a life lived recklessly won't end
any differently than a life lived moderately
A stand of oak trees both invisible and infinite
crowd your bedroom
rooting their way through the hardwood floor
Imagine for a moment this is not true

 

  

 

A Completely Regular Street

 

Every window looks out onto a completely regular street And every poet views these streets through their completely irregular eyes A singularly deviant vision connects us in the in-tractable emptiness of city planning I want to believe in the beauty of verse but I know it's merely a safety net preventing me from falling into an amorphous landscape by which I mean the ether of nothing I transmit life's debris to you as a form of saying: I hope you know we're forever alone but please join me in this loneliness Which is not a contradiction but a manner of existing in close proximity to a vague and incomprehensible image of ourselves irreducibly distorted by the smallest distance In other words an empathy of despair A series of handshakes has left me ill It's how decorum prepares my sickbed Little by little I'm leaving out the details for you for to imagine 

 

 

  

Everything Pulses So Weird

 

Look at that fucking cloud and the way it moves across the horizon and onto its second-life beyond sight escaping our failed vision Look at that fucking cloud It's a metaphor for you and I and all the landscape between us But I can't remember exactly how Look at that fucking cloud It's been overused in poetry for at least 200 years Listen to these fucking clouds pulse through this poem as a sonic heartbeat meant to keep our rhythm balanced Look at that fucking cloud lost in a department store floating into and out of each and every storefront in hope of finding the perfect purchase Look at that fucking cloud hang over the head of baby goats and toddlers at the pumpkin patch portending the season's first snow and your need to pack away autumn's neglected short-shorts Look at that fucking cloud drunk on rum packaged into miniature airplane bottles Look at that fucking cloud It's receiving emails from a damaged past and unsure of how to respond Look at that fucking cloud cover the sun Look at that fucking cloud and the atmospheric patina tarnishing it into a new shade of blue Look at that fucking cloud repeat itself in me from you Look at that fucking cloud change its shape with the wind Look at that fucking cloud darkening Ohio Look at that fucking cloud I'm kind of depending on it