simone muench   william allegrezza 

pushing between                  

his post on the border is over
still he sees
collapsed pictures of mesquites in wet light

listening to heartbeats              brand commercials
motors running                laundry machines working

the gods were dead when i arrived,
but the corporations had already taken over.

yet he is scheduled to live
blown up by red geraniums
thrown on a desolate landscape

he is scheduled to become
the weather
where certain fields escape

where sugarpods of mesquites
fill light with women’s laundered lingerie
smelling of sex and chemicals

he sees, he says
which gods are dead

as their wet pictures
run rainstatic through the  wringer washer

maytag edition                 in mesquite, TX
a boy’s hand
                          coming out the other side like sky

“i see you putting on your clothes
and want to strip it all away.”

we are watching
                           certain fields escape

“character teaches”                                                   (under i you)

as wrenches or pulleys
minutes through proper time
instructions in seven languages                                      (under i you)

ungaretti says, and already I am desert.
lost inside this curving sadness.
but night disperses distances.

             to believe the lines               
             about infinity
             i must undo myself                                         (under i you)

i am watching
                         you undo
your jacket, uncertain
in a certain field

where a girl insists
Take me to the woodshed boy.                                         (under him her)
                                             or is that
Take me to the woodshed.    Boy.                                     (under her him)

We can never overcome the
inflections of seven languages
even when we abide by
the instruction manual   

which declares:
find new ways to move beneath your clothes       (under us them)(sashaying)
                            this button undone
                            another falling away
                           he gives up hope of
                           surviving her
the lines of arms
curving distances

desire is not a season.  which wrist is leading?

               “morning glories for the map-maker who visits my thighs”

make me into a geographical certainty.

a location to visit
in terrible weather.  ice-light.  sea spit and drizzle.

                          i have located you in desire
                          thrown aside the quadrant
                         and started feeling with fingers.

you sketch my skin
                         with  seaports and parishes
                                          not to eliminate erosion 
                                          but to complicate place

lips salt-tipped, lit by spumante,
sea-spume.  your hand
under my voice

so many ways to kiss a boy who’s drowning

so many ways to

she listens to wind over
clear water

she listens to deer
gather in the blue
electricity of the drying laundry   

                                           the cold
                              wind makes her

to undo herself
she must have warmth
the steady gaze
of an eye     (the ocular erotic in what distant deeps or skies)

i crawled into your face
and slept there
sphinx-eyed and tired of the ongoing wars

            and you
            played with porcelain angels
            on a mantle
            pretending not to see

                          i’ll have another brandy, please.

here is my eye
a finger      a nail
they protect me
from desire
but fail so often
that i am giving them
to you

            the maker laughs to herself
            as she pours another drink

a grappa-wide smile
an ear paused in the salted air of the Adriatic
you whisper
                          maestral, my arm is on fire

etymology is a sexy way
to get a girl to lift her skirt
or peel an orange in one spiraled
piece with fever-white teeth

beneath insinuations of a solar system
you taste of limeade as you dream of green hospital gowns

to undo her
buttons you must rewind
your life,
you must become yourself
in front of yourself.


simone muench  was raised in Benson, Louisiana and Combs, Arkansas. Her most recent book Lampblack & Ash received the Kathryn A. Morton Prize for Poetry (Sarabande Books, 2005). Orange Girl, a chapbook, is forthcoming in July 07 from Dancing Girl Press. She has poems appearing in Iowa Review, American Poet, Caffeine Destiny, Poetry, Locuspoint and Three Candles. She received her Ph.D from the University of Illinois at Chicago, and is director of the Writing Program at Lewis University. Currently, she serves on the advisory board for Switchback Books, and is a contributing editor to Sharkforum where she presents a “poem of the week” series.  She is also an avid horror film fan.
william allegrezza is the editor of Moria and editor-in-chief of Cracked Slab Books.  His poetry, articles, translations, and reviews have been published in many countries, including Australia, the Czech Republic, Holland, and the United States.  He has had work appear in Milk, Word for Word, Aught, Sidereality, The Drunken Boat, and many others.  His books and chapbooks include Lingo (subontic), temporal nomads (xPressed), The Vicious Bunny Translations (Lulu), Covering Over (Moria), and Ladders in July(BlazeVox).




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