Such mystery of the undersides of leaves!
Such sweet spectacle and reverie!
I was tired of immanence, bang bang, its way
all this hunger and no
all the sorry containers
into which I pour
my restlessness, the thimble
and the dam,
the weeping and
the angel and
the turbine blade
massive on the eighteen wheeler
like a tusk
from the bottom
of the sea. I wanted
to get to the party
and start drinking
underneath the bamboo.
I did not want
to see the holy tree, and
I did not give a crap about
anyone else’s desire
to see the holy tree.
into my public self
behind the hedge, the field
and the farmboys
This question is for testing whether you are
a human visitor
whitehouse.gov account login
I’ve seen things you people wouldn’t believe.
I am careful what I put in my body.
I am maybe a little insurrection?
You want me to type Dashaway resphea, I will.
You want me to type Allows emplover, I will.
I am not always sure we are human.
Larcem self. Vernon cingdea.
I drink the wine to see if my flesh is flesh.
I touch my man to see if my soul vibrates.
Bylore rage. Mi Pyristea.
It is hard to get away from meaning, not
to see it—
Lately I am needing more quiet.
My authenticated amygdala.
I came here to tell you: enough violence.
Sometimes the world is so heavy we are indeed
we emplover like radium.
Mr. President, the real sidles up to the unreal
like a boy with a gun.
Sometimes, to know that I am real,
I wade into the river, I let the river
numb my legs, I say to the river
Wrought lithia and the river takes my words
to the great Telex missander which is the sea.
Kerri Webster is the author of two books, “Grand & Arsenal” (University of Iowa, 2012), and “We Do Not Eat Our Hearts Alone” (University of Georgia, 2005). She currently lives in Idaho.