A light goes off a spark plug
Three shot shots to three men on Friday evening
Shot under umbrella of steel signage: CHANCE.
Says during garden-time hose slid over face emerging green wetting everything.
Imagine tipping inside brain coming like a serpent to the royal pretend station
the dial beneath your thin finger pads
I’m walking this backwards let’s start again operating by a pendulum that is now see-sawed one way despite gravity.
Write everything you mean she confesses
but don’t struggle with the last line because I don’t know what’s being said
but there is struggle like joining the museum line, warm air,
holiday people what’s behind the white door.
Naked bodies stacked a twister game of sorts with young ones saying I don’t know
I don’t know can’t we say who’s in charge place the charge, point. I don’t know flip a channel woman with treated hair in camouflage a beach setting possible water creeping up a toe bellows in green to begin jumping jacks raise hands high smack like sisters team reamed from some sky pocket or ocean burrow.
He defines marsh
He defines fishing is what he likes
He definitely said his wife likes bird
We the people like a real kind of person talk.
The phone a vehicle attached to the hand says in a voice you didn’t see
The Shepherd mauled the man.
German Shephard, man
Blood on both.
And now this sets us back indefinitely I mean forget about it you better get in your car and drive the middle American route that’s all that you’re invited to.
The want of beauty a flying thing that waits in the gauze of some tree limb and then you got it, whamp. But now in a fist it’s a thing, it’s had, breath gives you skin rash and redness. Is it for the thing or the desire. It’s unclear what we all want, yes.
Heading out tunes blared done in filming
Written word solidifies.
Man on knees.
The prayer the mourn the sacrifice in one stoop.
You can’t do your summer trips trapped in your sweaty city watch for light-twinkling evenings watch from your panes.
Watch a lot of air collapse onto the screen museum noise color blurb I want the human connection so I turned it on I turned on eleven o’clock week nights can’t connect with red liquid in the jar the black material asks for weight.
It was only thunder reminding me of three shots bringing to windows thickly hung with crimson silk drapes only then the hand tore one away and looked to sky to straight ahead other windows where fizzing light to new table of neighbor’s wicker, and abundances of green, rained on green festering tangling up the fences the heavy cat triggers its fall falling toward the plants that decided to make it through time.
jenniferfirestone is the author of the chapbook, snapshot, published by Sona Books (June 2004). Her poems appear in LUNGFULL!, Canwehaveourballback, Fourteen Hills, moria, BlazeVox, Poetry Salzburg Review and others. She is currently editing a book in progress of epistolary dialogues between well known, contemporary poets called Letters To Young Poets: Conversations about Poetics, Politics and Community. Originally from San Francisco, Jennifer now lives in Brooklyn and teaches at Hunter College and Eugene Lang University (The New School For Liberal Arts).