Simone Muench (Chicago, USA): Three Prose Poems

(an apiary): kristy o

Like aqua eyeliner and Baudelaire, we drink in strange trades, skålling over your chest of bees. What would you choose—red meat or Coco Chanel? gentle violence or violent tenderness? When salsa dancing with Keats’ alias we bloomed gold thighs, pink sadnesses. At your bedroom window, I lean out of refuge, into moth wings. Our black eyes, transparent sting. You said, hello, blank-eyed, zero in! Our home base, a distant cabana, an archipelago; our family secrets, a fenestra, honeycomb riddled by jimsonweed. Sad fictions born of red letter afflictions and the redivivus of arthritic cypress. The light gonged, confirming my senses were leaving me, and you became a foehn, whispering through veils of glamorous biblical women, loaded up on blossom.



(beetle-beauty): lauren l

Through fossils of grapefruit, your words full of climacteric Kafka sadness. Night moths rest in your carnelian desert. There I found your fire-tossed hair, your jade green horns, and bowed beauty-down. Your father left you a blanket by the mustard-colored wall between a cigar and a scream. The house lost beyond a pepper tree. The curtains, like carapaces, and a mad rushing descent as if to name—strange things narrated—an object that long, shedding its horizon, a Chalcosoma caucasus from the image of your frame.



(a train track): mary b

Train track flutter girl; coriander lips and ale during Prohibition. That empty mouth like a bottle on a man’s neck. Marabou soft, doe's muzzle on a pomegranate split open, ultraviolet. You might have to rid yourself of all boys, mostly rapscallions. How they feel under hands: red fish, big branches caught in your rain-rinsed hair, river tresses. For your thigh, a thread of nine carat bone. While the crossbuck sign danger-flashed its bells, citronella girls smoked Parliaments with a felon; your neckline, a kerosene swoon.


© Simone Muench 2007

Anselm Berrigan (NYC, USA): Eight poems from Have a Good One

Have A Good One


The promise of a hard-won exuberance
brought you near. The need to be
around the most people doing
something was a fucking magnet. From
running races to making copies to
delivering packages promotion became
a recognizable cycle, if always
with a clear ceiling or escape hatch.
The latter you design, though awareness
of authority in that regard can be
transient. It’s a cheap shot. Honesty
in the making. But do the parts get to
be themselves while part of the whole
thing? And if they’re only themselves
like I’m only my habits and kindnesses
measuring contact before moving
forward we’re done. You’ll call me.
I tend to screen. Technology’s
beauty made shapely by the choice.
Bits of it, I mean. Shape is for the birds.


Have A Good One


Choose your own adventure
lacked possibility. Try
coming home to your
wildlife books sold off
by adult creep types
after enduring Boulder’s
second grade. You’re hopelessly
out of touch with the culture
you use by looking at. You
can be culture, but not
accused of it. Dream giant
cockroach in the wall
dreams but more often
pull endless string
from the mouth.


Have a Good One


Give me your taxable
contours. The caveman
did. The rain in stride
zoned us to passable
educations reflective
after a time. Our guts
for once don't make
a break for it. Their
deadly attacks merely
entertain inside upon
request: nature feigns
oversight. I'll break
the law for an exo-
skeleton panelist of
woe. Give it back.


Have a Good One


Off the record he’s a piece of shit. Time
management I don’t buy. Just tell me
what’s happened. Whatever it’s going
to be is what I need to know.


Have A Good One


I don't name animals.
I don't steal their forms.
The water sprayer does not
stalk my automatic rage.
Barbarian camps circa 235
A.D. are hardly worthy of
condemnation five hundred
years later. Goodbye health
plan. Goodbye semi-motivated
halflife of an identity.


Have A Good One


My mission tonight is to
not get so drunk I can't properly
introduce. It's surprisingly easy,
because I'm thinking about experience.


Have A Good One


Burying the duck crumble
with beer, while it pretends
to the elucidation of principles.
The shaver sucks face.
Scotch shirt proudly wrinkled.
Parisian sidewalk stains &
their lack of warmth. Remember
lava flowing freely all
around us, stains with
warmth? I've had a
great life. But I ain't
going out like that.


Have A Good One


It's become harder and harder
not to take responsibility. For
all of it. Every bastion of
disrepair, every qualified public
apology for ill-tongued remarks.
Every pasture of redespair, every
made up resume of a sorry. Its
been harder not to undergo surgery
or plead for indifference from the
feds. Don’t you see them seeing you?
Remember when them seeing us was
what we wanted? And yet I was in high
school: The President's Daddy
was the President.


© Anselm Berrigan 2007