Also in this issue, Joni Wallace’s thicket with swan and blue fist: a video poem


Joni Wallace’s most recent work is also online at West Branch Wired www.bucknell.edu/westbranch


Contributor Notes

Joni Wallace

Joni Wallace



Water tower # 5 with money and show


Inside the water tower’s a 4D Invisible Dog.  Ersatz viscera behind plastic peephole window.  Studded collar, a leash, the catch-me shoes.  Its speaker box stutter-bark talk. to. me.  What’s to say?  Everything’s as we left it.   Cutters circling, comeoverhere coins.

Voice, I say, remove dipthong. 

A little alcohol, a woolpack.                  

Vox, I say, look at your features:

tinny rin tin.  Gloss-glint of empty.

It comes hard right at me with a ring back so naughty, take of your ____.

So ever the game.  A little Bombay in the bomb bay.  Its pluvial text.

An I undressing, a red dress, a lung.





Water tower # 7 (after Meret Oppenheim)

How mercurial, the sound room.

Does not know its kind.

Animal charge as stammer-out, tedium drone.

I raise my hand, hind in the hippodrome. 

Perfect, I think, though never chosen. 

Deer sincere, I say into the notebook.

It hears me too kind.

I’ll make a sorry-ticket.

Mer to mur it purrs.

Look, the ghost dictionary:

my white glove, ventricular boughs.





Thicket with sorrow machine, a ready-made



Please is a bittern heard crying.

And strung up and hung ‘round a hyacinth tree,


trouble scuffling there:

a scratch, a slip, a mouse, mouse, mouse-cry.


And top to top it fell, mortar too,

cracked and thuds across the dirty floor


you foot-to-foot. Says linoleum linocut. 

Other egg names: cackle.  After-scrap.


How sharp, how splinter the ready-made.

A bird-cradled cage. 


And you in there, darkdamp. 

a motherfucking mole.


Be quiet, don’t say one word.


Things broken arrange a hole.

The sun is.

You would have.

Worn it.