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 _______ |
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. | ||