Poetry: Kerri Webster

Such mystery of the undersides of leaves!

Such sweet spectacle and reverie!

Kerri Webster

 
I was tired of immanence, bang bang, its way
of pulsating

everything, tired
of mouthedness,

all this hunger and no
revelation,

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.
I changed

into my public self
behind the hedge, the field

and the farmboys
watching.

 

This question is for testing whether you are

a human visitor

Kerri Webster

whitehouse.gov account login
 
I’ve seen things you people wouldn’t believe.
Just kidding.
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.
It vibrates.
Bylore rage. Mi Pyristea.
It is hard to get away from meaning, not
to see it—
Unfortunate inshesta.
Amen.
Lately I am needing more quiet.
My authenticated amygdala.
Yea bedsive.
I came here to tell you: enough violence.
Aegis blesmin.
Sometimes the world is so heavy we are indeed
bedsive. Sometimes
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.