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| from poison disguised: first :: madnesses 9. my anchor life. to glorious highs reach this human germ only to return remaining decorated, ornamental. without force. that forest reads of scandal. it is burning impatiently, it does not rest. daring the world from depths always leaving that bright crystal into which speechifying eases each to its demise. <<I think that tree was trying to tell me something. I ::know:: that bird was.>> 10. morning quest against madness to give her that day. the brunt of location crossed her name. honor of surplus. but dressed like a goon. content to honor the world by eating cheeses, neufchatel giving face to faith columns, colonized & with constant invitations underground to eat, like at the abbey (of handmade bread, thick and hot) thanks be to the lover. an infraction against dishonor & the river. 11. juggling beats that serve the oppressor whose due, glorious tyranny, of love is yes, well-taken. that which frees to remain not flying but ravenous at the core. & so much begging, piety, returns intolerance with indiscretion. wrongful misery, it will be returned to you, over your fencing to give legs to your laughter. 12. contest the disfigurement of the beautiful forgotten castle, dry because of a short if decorous, and beautiful life. the fortress was poorly made. the being died. (fame & not force saw its fallacy felled) that bird always cooing. the beautiful countryside & that allowable uniqueness. 13. dead ivy covered the prattling amenities crossed the river a-mornings & flowed to kneel near villainous banks that break over it cursing. it was ok– whatever the lack of serenity– when prayers were miserly, ingratiating fatal from delusion of no sleep, ragged the richness of our native line. 14. which is that not saddled with a weekend mind of gold medium, languishing in effulgence? this costs, is a form of adventure. the seductress grows in strength her talons fraught with vengeance yes, richly she is adorned. gives this honored fortune to someone less petty, fearful ready to be a star. that’s a superb suggestion. right there, the swan, she falls. from bridges are targets: bridge #35 (under it) who doesn’t feel comfortable in this world, staring as though bound, set upon shoe leather for company. lifting off the sky for the ground set next to a complication of overlapping polyester threads for lace well worn, soul of the earth the folded shone the worn shades the patent shine reflective patterns scuffed in this made-cheaply world designed in grids, arches laced up tongues against stars’ movement. bridge #19 what proof of this? a forward charge? is bliss followed is all-of-us mind a collective upheaval? is our together purpose is coin to represent earth & the all together crying out? we all make the best decisions. look at evidence collected like honey from various combs–clover, alfalfa– telling of reflected hives draped in diamond cast facets of a grandmothers’ jewels who lost her hand & gave the ring to me who made wooden teeth for my receding gumline. world underhanded revelation is the water gift that blinds us all free. now the time then for magic universe, desire-world of fantasy conviviality covered cough. what use this pillowed head. bridge #39 (diamond corona) fishing for stirred up empty space through fog covered heads-– newspapered shoulders drown. the woman possessed is as the flower turned to the sun her life follows, is fragrant & following. cut & dried. stalk still stuck on the bridge junction blazing the remembrance of beach past, of pitcher white sand, of sea. rinsing off the salt floating, quenched from hot. |
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BETSY
FAGIN's poems appear in a number of
literary journals including Five Fingers
Review, Fence, Skanky Possum, So to Speak,
Torch, Van Gogh’s Ear and The World Among
Others. She is the
author of For Every Solution There is a Problem (Open24 Hours, 2003).
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