b  e  t  s  y  f  a  g  i  n

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
  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.

«±  ±»

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). Some of her work can be found online at: canwehaveourballback?, The East Village Poetry Web: The Poetry Project Website: & Poets Against the War: