Rebar by JKD

A re-wording of Louise Bak's Absorptive (tuesday poem number 38 on Dusie) by Jennifer K Dick

An arm’s worth more than its length

to be the adjoining corner’s sidewall,
building past its broken fringe rigid part

turned out into the groan oiled wrist thigh-

high circumnavigation, flap, found the “e”

in society in “I. Konigsburg” a flattened curve

backed all the way down to the A36 this case

a violin’s, a booked room, a change of clothes

hand slapped on top bar (swerved briefly) a cross

creased a line: the medicinal pump beeps

intravenous short puffs on the welt pocket: kneeling

to redness that pearlescent button through a loop,

to readiness, arm yourself, lean out to a bunched

bottle-neck, mapping induced enclosures’ square of

the earth’s root, dot, branch, broadened bifocalized

line joining the articulation of sound body casted

from a note or bracken barked upland paper 

resists strokes, to resist paper, stroke, stoke the f

glancing at an insect''s reduced convexity, glassline

nudged its slid corner slightly abrasive raised as

if to mumble  from fallen, a  crown, yank the cart

-ilage rhomboids, sestets, a following as with a flick

or the assigned rival, hinge, 90° to contained obsolescence.

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Likened to matter by JKD

After Hypnotized Dzina's Like it Matters

It is not outside

within an unblanked

poem

“paper deceives!”

“And ink delves?”

—what wasn’t rhetorical in this Quineauesque

production: licking, saucy, underlying Cotton’s

Matter, a substance. Chops.

Poetry got spendy.

Lovers may be paid by removal,

Exposure.

“I” says the page “am not prim.”

To which Ink replies: “Striptease?

strip poker? Speak easy

In your zero-sum style, but don’t

give it away.”

In the velodrome of writing prompts, I’d prefer

to hand out velamints. Anyone for cinnamon?

This is what was left in her grandmother’s mink coat.

Not some note, some noteworthy letter, embossed,

wax sealed. We are all of us going

nowhere-everywhichway. X-potentiated, the genome

is flawed, an eternal repetition 

“Form alone gives me the slip.”

“Poor paper, stuffed properly

into the envelope—‘n’ off you go!”

Pink imaginary ellipsis

no longer semi-fluid material.

I am down to the letter Y. I knows

U, knows U are over and beyond X.

Try? Trail? Even a plume

can do me better.

.

Flurry, by JKD

a rewording, downparing of Dzina's "On the other hand"

Invisible petals 
flowerbursts 
through snow
a Sunday morning



.

Palm Reading by Jennifer K Dick

After Cole Swensen’s poem “Fingers: Alignment” from The Book of a Hundred Hands (U of IA) (Swensen’s poem is online at: http://www.tumblr.com/tagged/cole-swensen)

We (read I, read the eye of the) cannot congregate

declare (I do) the constellation (I’m bound to)
blind, blunder (I’ve always known it), but

you have never before (have you?)
complied

with the people I think I’ve seen every day,

(have I seen, am I, and then to see is, at sea)

and then of the people I
four or five days a month

a mourning those I say twice

I’ve known (I have been known to)

(I know you, too) by this.

Texture.

and then once, and then I knew (was known) by no one

Suddenly, you say, sudden

crowded

integrating

interiorate

catapult

integral

This is just what I’d imagined
you knew
of sky, and my lost roads maps
wending our pathways out

overt gardens, overt landscapes scraped

shaped into his gardens

(you do know who I speak of? Ours, and hours)

I hear my voice

(yours)

This is an echo
this echo is this

is echo’s attempt to speak

etc.

I’m (she is) (you are) (we may be becoming) blind,

so

who can only see me
within their hands?

.

Passages, by JKD

Rewording Sarah Larivière's Coronary Conduct and Sean Standish’s 3 Day Weekend while listening to the Youtube video of John Cage’s Dream

And here I am trying to spoil all that

is wanting,    waiting

between notes in Cage’s Dream

landscape, a 4’33 pause

between

I,

because

I, unable to draw indications,

lament striations in the latent stationary

this                  a card

holding out for a (our) destination.

.

Where these two sides meet, by JKD

Rewording of Erin Mouré’s “Coronal Bone Suture”—as a rescrambling of the original + small additions. Published in the now-available Lana Turner lit review, issue #5: http://www.lanaturnerjournal.com/toc-override/erin-moure-coronal-bone-suture

“I am a rabbit

wanting

in

physicality’s memory

my treasure

you,” I told her.

“But no!,” she retorted

“Words are beings

sutured.”

Sustenance abjured

this glance

stretched frontal

spacing

one comma between

each

of us.

Wanting that

pirate,

I thought, holding

out to            (for) 

her

this dismay.