Are You Getting Interested?

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Are You Getting Interested

by Rob Rice

 

 

Are you getting interested

Or just getting “A”s?

 

“Your discussion of relevance

Regarding

The sunset I’m overhearing

Is necessarily false

Regardless of the subject”

Which… admittedly I missed

 

You are a frayed family

You man, daughter, and lawyer

What happened to mom

Happened to the girl too

Obviously

 

Scene: “Sex-devoid cow births, us interfacing with animals”

Getting in some real rural goodness

And with glove-induced peristaltic motion a

Hand full of shit

Imposter offspring she has no choice but slowly to learn to love

As at least they validate her candidacy

 

Coordinate careerism, in hiding the brute away

Keeping at bay the biology, taxonomic entry

Jagged composition like spectacle stones in ridges and pepto-viscera bubbles

In colors there

That make seem clear

There is nothing you’ve invented:

Preemptive rocks, sharp peaked churn in open oil

Linear time

Displayed in rock

Crashing into a wall of dead man’s envy

Like a test dummy history

But, like, suspecting

 

We imagine the distain of extinct or even other animals

But it’s no cold expressive azurite

 

“Shh,” it says, “just wait”

 

Pursue a career, concreting in of the brute

Sealant of slick troggy tendency

Capsule’s fistula reveals an

Apathetic wringing of necks a

Twisting off of tops

Even still, unconvinced,

Lip service to rocks to

Miles of rocks to no

Shortage of rocks?

Bruised, scabbed and squat rocks

Oxford commas?

As if!

Spathic Andean ranges!

This is your mother!

 

Your aspiration excludes

You from the revolution

 

Amazing, how his knocking actually gets less insistent, the brute

Like he does, he must admit, have to concede the fundaments of value in

Your careering:

That career is your currency!

That is your screen!

Your subduing warren of summonses

Your netted neural diaper

Your Hot Knot

That screen is your home!

 

 

 

I need to empty out

 

All this acidic stuff in my sternum is aberrantly dissolving pennies

 

that I could have saved up

 

                                      and spent

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Trait Bait

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Trait Bait

by Rob Rice

 

 

 

 

You moldy batter

You perpetually unmade bed

You lustrous ass castle

You shin kick

You plutocratic wino lizard

You slimy minky spare moustache

You look like you have Vaseline on your forehead

You look like you missed a spot

Like you’ve been eating heavy

You queasy week

You floozy wacker

You winter

You sidewinding detour

You disappointing scenic route

You misplaced inflection

You wrong prosody

You intentionally bashful actor above earnesty

You wildly misleading epithet

You crooked pedagogue, dating down for energy

You wax smirk, perpetual and frustrating

You clean kitchen

You box of individually packaged catheters

You limp whistle misfire

You headache scented can liner

You pock

You genetically thick calf

You convincing faker

Making tactically interested eye contact

And bouncing my story along

Like a beach ball in a concert

With your perfectly timed Mhms

You sleek prep

You coveted exclusive item

You inconvenient time to choke on water

You irresponsible hypnotist

You wasted little snack

You uninformative docket

You overbearing outfit

You third retelling of an endearing rescue story

By your ex-girlfriend’s new boyfriend

You checkered past

You boring secret

You wispy pubis

You outer of embellishments

You territorial co-worker

You mostly broth soup

Lacking salt

You losing Keno chit

You obvious cosmetic

You temporary stint on an endangered species list

Garnering you countless centuries of sympathy

You responsible life decision

You comfortable optimist

You recipient of due credit

You exchange of winks among strangers

You thirtieth second of a thirty second stretch

You hurt bird

You restaurant staple

You champion of an overused idiom

You isolating tinny laugh

You topical hybrid word

Representing something useless

You skort

You rigorous process

You meticulous and low yield mill

You unanimously retained decommissioned sneaker

You ambiguous flavor

Not listed in the dish description

You’re on the tip of my tongue

You discreet handoff of documents

You most important sentence

You got redacted

You effortless first timer

You multi-dimensional talent

You lost troop

You cursed storefront

Where nothing ever survives

You profitable anomaly

You gracefully resolved misunderstanding

You happy couple at the café

You make everyone miserable

You indistinct spectrum

You tropical hotel library

That nobody judges

You suggestive animal cracker

You uninterested half

Of a pair of mortal enemies

You beloved videotape

Of your garbled baby self

Trying to explain about the switch at the hospital

You forgotten detail

You third day of a ten-day vacation

You entrepreneurial genius

Pitching your idea for a chain of cheap hotels

Modeled after a dry cleaner’s

But with hammocks rotating around the rack

You bleach stain

You domestic irony

You succession of toe stubbings

You expectedly abandoned tidal pool

You single missing piece of a board game

You forgotten one of very many spent dollars

 

Do you want to get in this car?

Apparently, he’s not even that prodigal

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He left us, folks.

 

Maybe, him citing opportunity, circumstance, and spontaneity, we rationalized it, maybe it was seamless. But there was that nag, that lingering incantatory itch: “it’s us, it’s us.” So we tried to comfort each other with “it’s the fattiness of the doughnuts, the romance of the rose,” but despite it, we darkened, worsened, our little justifications sating us less and then less. Collapsed into a pile, us, crying out, “IT WAS US! HE LEFT US!” we writhed, sweating, and then, like an Appalachian exorcism, the fever broke.

 

And then, after we had moved on and remarried, thinking him dead in the war, his letters arrived.

 

Now, piece by piece: He’s Back.

 

 

 


 

Loops

by Jamie Thomson

 

 


 

 

I am master I put the objects in the proper

zones I stuff the ducks in a brown sack Are

you laughing? Don’t you dare laugh I could

smash your face in you complete zero I am

master I put the objects in the zones I do

 

 

 

I pledge allegiance to just about anything with money I need

money pretty much all the time now The toaster broke

is why I can’t live without my pretty green toaster Ask anyone

who knows me Ovens are too strong and the sun is so

far These days are a lot like nights in a box in an abandoned

warehouse cellar I know the mice can hear me down here

in this box in this cellar of mine but just don’t care about me

nor my toaster I had so many chances! I had so much love

it was repulsive I wore it like a rug It was heavy and nothing

is worse than heavy at that age I must have burned 10,000

effigies a day Ripped out a few good hearts (one my own)

 

 

 

A man started so humble He lived

a while in a small wood shack

in the back of someone’s head

who didn’t know it yet It was peaceful

if not a little lonely out there

in that shack in the backcountry

amongst the endless trees which bore a few sad leaves sometimes

but also not The man

set about perfecting himself

It was hard work It took a really long time

but then happened At that moment

a figure appeared on the horizon

She stood eyeing the man who was burning now so luminous below

 

 

 

Here’s a man made of string We hang him

up around the house He begs us

to take him down and we just laugh Then

one of us unwinds some so we can tie knots

all through him It must hurt a lot He moans

whenever we pull tight It’s good we have him

We need him We wouldn’t get along so well without him

 

 

 

Look at this old house Someone

must have built it a long time ago

and then died A different person

is living there now Maybe it’s a son

or daughter or a son’s or daughter’s

son or daughter Or maybe someone else

just found it empty and went in

 

 

 

I figured what the heck a cloud, a cloud

what’s a cloud really but a footstool to stars

and beyond They said that’s insane you’ll die

so fast I stepped out the window of my favorite

penthouse In case you couldn’t tell I’m super

rich It worked! I stood on a cloud! People

in passing planes waved and cheered My shadow

was immense It covered all sorts of great stuff

 

 

 

 

There’s this hole right in the middle

of my life I only just noticed

the other day A lot has fallen in so far

 

 

 

 

 

What’s the point of other people

if they always leave at night

 

 

 

Newark Maid

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Newark Maid

by Rob Rice

 

 

A lot of bricks were laid

Back before we had cell phones and DNA

There were heaved bundles and scratches to show, weepers

Red thumbs and lazy monikers

Characteristic

And unsavory jobs like stretcher and bleeder, fitting Kid

For balls and amorous winter ambling

As the luck bandages the loss

 

Slender gaseous output

Jains covering their mouths

Because of freedom of speech or something

Hoping that what they can say

Will be misinterpreted rampantly

And eventually approximate something powerful

And sell them copies

 

Bloated blessings that wheeze from a beached seal

Hot from end of life rush and decomp.

Sand gets implicated in so much movement

Unfairly roped into various arguments

That pretty much just go in circles

 

Things aren’t always what they seem

At Gentle Dental

The grace of god is in the files

An order of women and men

Cleansed and drilled on behaviors

Like getting out from between the bone

An accumulated evidence there

 

Seek out passage and potatoes

And boil on the boat

Glimmering copper beaconess

Isn’t looking like herself these days

Verdigris ghillie

Lichen of cash and coin

The Earnest Observer

In response to the line in Vinyl Black Top that seems to be the only line people remember, I have written a further accounting of my observations.

 

 

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The Earnest Observer

by Rob Rice

 

 

Some look like a raspberry

Hot and tart

Sweet raw red

 

Others like a lobotomy

 

Others still like a Croque Madame

 

 

Androgynous pretty Asian girl

Keeps a fresh peeled hard-boiled egg in there

Winking because she knows I know about the bright buttery yolk

 

 

Some like Mona Lisa’s smile

Sly and grey

 

Others like novice caulking and hay

Hastily deployed to plug a serious leak in the foundation

 

Others still like the sound your boots make

Extricating themselves from the mud

 

 

Intelligent eyes underlined with freckles that

Crown a hard shelf of bone

Her’s like a stoma stained from still being smoked through

 

 

Some like compote

Made a bit too unctuous

With currant and whole star anise

 

Others like a Night Heron’s

Suspicious peering off a slender single leg

 

Others still like the hopeful false confusion

Of hogs following each other toward The Noise

 

 

Living her life in a succession of snow globes

Her’s the ragged sulking Hyena

At an edge of the rout

J.Thomson Arrives, Lending Some Much Needed Credibility To The Whole Thing

Jamie has for a while been enthused with Heather Christle, a poet who has spent some time in our dead-end end of the state (MFA at Umass and living in Northampton), him likely picking up on her love of humor and beauty and horror in frankness. Tipped off by her, he got into the William Basinski disintegration loops, a series of musical experiments that were born from trying to digitize a set of twenty year old and frantically crumbling recordings of his music. In some sort of study of unconsciousness and trance, Jamie wrote scores of “loops”: rabid little things from within the disintegration, unburdened by too much concern with structure and form.

(http://heatherchristle.tumblr.com)

(http://bostonreview.net/heather-christle-acorn-duly-crushed)

(https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Basinski)

(https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qYOr8TlnqsY)

Below are some early selections from a large batch he sent me, and more will continue to come as he continues to loop:

 

—-

 

My friend came to me with an egg He said

One of the reasons I like you so much

is you strike me as someone who knows

what to do with an egg I said No no

please don’t put that on me no I am not

He handed me the egg It was white

with a few yellow spots It felt nice

in my hand What a beautiful egg! I said

He grinned and slapped his thigh For some reason

I wanted to smash it all over the floor

and then punch him in the face I have no idea

why I react this way to beautiful eggs

 

 

I came across a man

dying of thirst I am dying of thirst

he said I poured some water

into the dying man’s mouth I am dying of thirst

he said I poured some more water into the dying man’s mouth

I am dying of thirst he said He died of thirst Who knows

It must have been some other kind of thirst

 

 

Would you like to hear my theory? No Okay my theory

has to do with theories and the people who make them

and also the people who hear them I don’t care Okay my theory

is that nobody wants to hear anybody else’s theories Shut up

Okay the reason nobody wants to hear anybody else’s theories

is because the instant they hear one of anybody else’s theories

there is then one less theory for them to come up with Go away

And that makes them sad I don’t care Okay but you’re crying

 

 

My little brother is so much bigger He could

squash me whenever Now do you get it?

 

 

In this dream mother has windmill hands She’s breaking

all the dishes I’m impressed! I’m very scared Where’s dad?

 

 

Old Men

Old Men

by Rob Rice

 

 

Fluency of rivers at night when they don’t need to be and no one’s listening.

A dark blue towards purple, surface butter-knife-hot-butter flat and satisfying like spreading it.

Scraping the bottom: probably all it can hear. Total self-hatred of rivers because erosion of fleeting friendships with the shore and its supportive belly. Facing backwards, crying and dragged away, too slow thinking and too fast gone too far to wave.

Ashamed, memory of all the scars.

Rubs it in: species’ reverence for the view.