Monday, June 13, 2016

Emily Vogel, After Stein


Gertrude Stein, image by Irene Koronas



After Stein

Guitar saga, you look, cauldron eye.
Then and never. The impossible construction
of exchange. Angry gondolier,
sighing like the sea, or fast trucking
of thorax, wet sea-foam of voice.
Expletive. Logic illiterate, southern bound
of heart-want. Dead fish sizzle
of slow morning. Sit or pen-stroke,
legs sinewy like ink-stain.
I wanted you like the impact of a skull.
Bash bash or impervious brain bash.
Pink like cheek of infant death or February
rusted wheelbarrow. Ambitious garden.
Long long awaited or nothing passes.
No ants no wasps transpiration of lisp.
Never was but now. I am talking in distances.
The world is a static image
asymmetry of shape and tawny.
Blue like dead mind mind in tranquil fear.
Fear of nothing quelling sun on flat white
while too much writing
about the scales of monsters. It was
touching her shoulder. Man not man.
Idea or whisper your love bust.
It wouldn’t not if me but I would
bird twitch of self, clatter of soul.
Your interesting motion
or gesture mouth rain in ancient cave.
I dreamt that I dreamt that
I smelt the evergreens. Never did see them
as ambulatory mass. Doll breath.
See was giggle or girl
and there was a barring. Good good book
disarray of alphabet but walk on
but don’t walk away. Come back
wrangle of wire, womb-spawn.



—Emily Vogel

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