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Tag: @Mc_Vuck

Banana

 

The sunbeam is first redder than crash,

Then a yellow, loud and dumb.

And if there is a nose it is soft-shaped

In the business of still-young foes:

The skin dangles from your hand,

Leading comedian, o kingpin with a punchline,

Who finds the fruit is laughable (as we do) and creates

All the to-do, then slips on the lit step up?

 

Delight is near you, a limp epaulette.

A chunk gleams in your hand: the edible guts of geodes!

A dollop of wet polar bear fur, a fur beneath

The skin! Reversible, like a curse, a logos,

Children’s children,

Pounding bright on the sleeve.

from Great Guns Find more by Farnoosh Fathi at the library

Copyright © 2013 Farnoosh Fathi
Used with the permission of Canarium Books.

Pressed Seat (Nun’s Buns)

 

Butterflies in a gag of buns, in a cool scream,

ganging in one sleeve, finely dusted and paper-thin—still on the tailor’s

mannequin. Tiny, black threads show,

conservatively snipped. We must be quiet, not helix any wind—There are

so many soldered pins—

Four brown wings titter (under some dead leaves) tutelage. And not stop.

Now into a clearing they go, to spindle in the sun

with the mutts. The tree that follows in mercy,

in clear blood falls—The waiter that slides beneath, with crisp cuffs.

Now we must think of everything, the lunar calendar stippled in their trim.

Mustn’t babyfatten even a tic of volume, my whole happiness

rises on one breath, on a tossed plate and flashing

its hills and garnishes of bilge.

from Great Guns Find more by Farnoosh Fathi at the library

Copyright © 2013 Farnoosh Fathi
Used with the permission of Canarium Books.

Ballad (Stork Droppings)

 

The spring storm and the scree

—All loosely crawl into some growth.

But lightning

 

was for the stork—

a sign of distress, a fatal, drool-etched

SOS . . . Poor, dutiful beak.

 

Now down the riverbasket goes in marble!

And the drain, so stern.

(“All blue weave and vein.”)

 

Sisters of one stair: Heel, heel,

heel around the crossword mold: Though names spread

across our arms,

 

thunder builds up the sleeves

to gather all in a sense, like edible flowers.

from Great Guns Find more by Farnoosh Fathi at the library

Copyright © 2013 Farnoosh Fathi
Used with the permission of Canarium Books.

Letter

 

So this breezy mystery bruise is also earth’s! She reads on; the yellow gulls arc and link at her breast; winter cracks the whites of her eyes, strange shapes egress! Too easy to forget, and in no less than human fashion, grief leaks its combination. But she cries, “not for what I did not understand but that it was meant for me alone.” He thinks of the sparrow on heels of lead, the black spill of elevators and ice. She wipes and weeps to her taste, but how fast, too fast, things rise! The meadows they made once, tops, over which chance angles light a clover. “That thicket horsetail rain which I polished as a child stands up to me now.” His eyes do not bulge and yet, are large. He tests himself, a man who stands in the rain of bone marrow, in the rain of bone, in the rain. And the rain stands on end like him; it falls in tatters for her joy; on a horse too inhaled by the distance peppered with pure mills, in a letter now too far to be sent in haste.

from Great Guns Find more by Farnoosh Fathi at the library

Copyright © 2013 Farnoosh Fathi
Used with the permission of Canarium Books.

Memory

 

Over the night a bull

Whispers into a coal

 

:Unmeant in the stall to sit and plate,

But sixth, with all the senses,

To consume—

Incorporate—those signal

Impressions which are (we know) its fate:

 

In explosions, in hard strides,

His coattails fly; to bits, to friends

Craven and brave.

 

Sadness undulates at their back.

 

His lilt’s a cotillion of flies.

 

But how he charges, he commits!

 

Each to the next.

 

It seems unfair, a target lies

Between its shoulder blades.

And another whisps right back:

A drop of blood would pin back his wild hair

Which wanders as it wills

A sunset like acupuncture

from Great Guns Find more by Farnoosh Fathi at the library

Copyright © 2013 Farnoosh Fathi
Used with the permission of Canarium Books.

Brasil

 

Left a hole on fire agony or was it the sun

on the banks and near duets?

Eagles with the white wine of the sun

clink and spill, tall

grass over head and heels

. . . Space of hell: shy, inscribed already

but alone—I think I can be that

 

again, a new hole in the ongoing flute.

In a leap, the country glows—to hone

the fate that wonder exacts,

to go netted through that much,

so heavy as paperweights angels land

square on chaparral nerves.

And since names must give in spades,

out of sorts like these, your reactions

may swell great fountain lips—

a promise that a wish will purge

or pennies caravan the safe

return hearts cross.

from Great Guns Find more by Farnoosh Fathi at the library

Copyright © 2013 Farnoosh Fathi
Used with the permission of Canarium Books.

This program is supported in part by a grant from the Idaho Humanities Council, a State-based program of the National Endowment for the Humanities.

Any views, findings, conclusions, or recommendations expressed in this (publication, website, exhibit, etc.) do not necessarily represent those of the Idaho Humanities Council or the National Endowment for the Humanities.

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