Mary Kasimor


contradictions of trotsky

today began later than planned
markets crashing        lights in the sky

a tarot night

I listened to the russians and they said
comrade        I preferred that to
stranger

I made thick black bread and planted
potatoes in my bedroom with eyes and
microphones

I evacuated the city
beside the waving wheat      the tractors
cheerfully marched
next to churches
stained glass saints named after socialists
whose desires were fate

the epic finds meaning
colorful state issued cotton
collaborative poems that speak
truth         the wheel unlocked the finite
numbers in the vault
wearing work aprons      the numbers spoon
out the soup of potatoes and onions

free blood        we will love
another 100 years
in the immense room of solitude
spiders weave their authority
the bees and chickens produce

hope from the capitalist
was chased        ghosts out
from smaller countries

on their land of human skins nothing
is settled       not the strike
nor the stricken in the window
a poem of fingerprints


after dickens

the vision was a shame always in shadows even then the half-
crushed skull. if it were the future the detour sets you sailing.
fleetingly I am eyes. wool. for the shortest evolution sometimes
revolting. words stick on the wall hamstrung translating
existence reeks of perfume. &. practical matters evaporate
chemical descriptions clearly. clouds matter the i-pod
sharpened. over the word she fell into a dream & a matter of
fact a continuation of word & plastic smattered & continued.
the spiral upwards & downwards left behind in the kitchen
for butchering. on television a monster spits out her stitches.
because the culture kept secrets she was given. diamonds.
the giver stirred the cold. hard darkness cutting shapes gold’s
dirt defined all eras after dickens’ death. his was never found.


pigeon #vi

in the room of molecules
she held their hearts
unfolding       a hothouse rose
a rosy ass
&/rubensesque       nose on
a cylindrical shape
serenity perched
the pigeon flew in           & out
a fear of blue       resuscitated
the dead memory holds
onto the wing
from out of the ashes
nothing came forth       a finger hums
escapes fresh from the body
& into the pot
tastes of      of a lot of cancer
we can’t confess
we play our cards
sideways       we enter         catatonic nouns
the alphabet tastes
free standing       rooted in the sky
a sty pig thinks about kachina dolls
a midwestern fate
bacon for sunday breakfast

Mary Kasimor's work has appeared in a previous issue of Otoliths. Her poetry has also been published in moria, Gutcult, MIPOesias, BlazeVox 2k3, and an upcoming issue of Big Bridge and Indefinite Space, among others. Her second book of poetry, silk string arias, was published by BlazeVox Books.

 
 
 
previous page     contents     next page