Sunday, February 07, 2010

Apparition Poems


#1596

I was talking to a dude
I knew from school, I
said, “I see the levels
from sleeping with
psychopaths, that’s
how I get them,” levels
were (I meant) places
between souls where
spaces open for metaphor,
“but when I carry them
over to my bed, every
psychopath levels me.”


#1605

This killer wears a tight
black shirt, glasses. There
are noises of digging happening
from the bathroom, she’s in
bed, hands over her mouth,
frozen upset. Then, the mirror
is dug through, his face appears
in a wall with a square cut in it.
The face is there, hovers there,
just sits, it has the promise of
action that kills. This is the
tableau I watch every time
I’m in the bathroom while
she’s in bed. And smile.


#1625

I ask you this here, while I look down on you, as

you look up at me, and the different ups & downs

of us play themselves out, so that if, while being in

this state, we are in and out of each other, all streaks

of blues, grays, blacks can be edited out, and voice-

overs take the place of our raw voices. Voices that

I trust, cherish, but these voices are too crude that

around us cast nets, so that we become crabs in and

out of ourselves, so that I remark to you (you’re on

top now) that things that need to be asked can only

be answered with skin, redness, pinkness, dots, this.


#1626

If it builds, she thinks, I’ll
do this, I’ll get out. Is it that
she’s so stuck she can’t move?
The baby needs looking after,
but, she thinks, so does her
soul, and to the extent that it’s
not being fed, she needs a new
bed somewhere. But the money
isn’t hers, it just isn’t, and she
walks the dog thinking these
thoughts in loops. And this is
where I intercepted her, in this
alley, with the dog, with fallen
traces of one who falls. That I
didn’t acknowledge her speaks
to the places I’ve fallen as well.

You can also find four sets of Apps on PennSound, here, and Apps on PFS Post, here.

2 comments:

Kelly said...

"teeth i tell her." and if that were your answer i would agree with you. what makes a good poem. bc your hunger is what counts, what makes the air stand still, what makes timelessness out of art. the ppl: know well when they've finally been fed. bc we're all hungry as hell, but how many of us are brave enough to keep tearing after it? hunger, voracious maybe even criminal hunger is what counts. my mom who i am working on being friends w said i came on way tooo strong in my response to you on my blog. i didn't, it wasn't too strong, it was just ingenuine: whatever about all the other stuff, we're all the voice of the oppressed i think. what matters is if we're brave enough to talk about it.

P.F.S. Post said...

Thanks, Kelly.

Adam Fieled

 

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