Britta Kallevang

A Fix

a bar held

sin sun

fees wind him

a way things

walk on

a day a day

you air land

on bud

bar a fee for

chess is too

much

pip in life

wuff wuff

strewn across

canvas

buffalo hair

down to the roots

which planet did

that guy with

the dancy wig

cry by

that crab has an eye tic

too much

to cigs

takes too much take

visits body that

hill past hell

many coins

coins and cigs

all an act column

an act

call him

two too

A Cameo

things in life swell

to the river. i

make my bed at home.

cellar stairs crackle. whispers

come through me to me they say

nothing. nothing comes to mind.

the shadow of a gnat crosses my chest.

i pick up a guitar and this, too, feels somehow.

sorry about the sponge droppings. the

seaweed waves good-bye. this signature, benevolent

omen. the man at the fair, he is there by the gigantic

switch. he pulls he pushes. fair is fair.

i think a nest of doves might be your next. great

feature. mountains make. i know it is mine. swimming

the digestive track, little shards of glass make

a tacit black. a black moment is a forgotten.

a printed thought is a

black, featureless screen. this remains

the same structured chair. white wicker crackles

under fire, losing its structure, hurting its wires. like a

madman’s handshake. his grip.

1

they say the water will win and they’re right if they know this lassoing to be true I’m about to lasso you too to the ring in the sky in people’s hands the sun went by you never saw that chance to hold the moon to hold the heavy changing of guards or planets

2

a bizarre killing of beliefs those photographs with our hands boxes bend in the rain make a strange song their flesh kissing mud beneath heavy hungry clouds and you were there i know what karmic shampoo i used in grade school something strawberry beneath the porch knowledge at night is me sitting on the bed writing poetry wondering what weather god looks down and what they’ll have me do to say to draw some diagram maybe alphabet why must i act the teacher they’ll tell me to find it hitting the bathroom floor the colors and pattern the tiles make what my head takes

3

open handed words are quite handy to have when green bed silver times spoons roll through my window we lived in a car on the simple road in books read and called through some quiet swirled screen to discuss effective advertising the words tingle as they think of a white framed abyss miss much can’t you get in and can you reply cat i don’t think it’s a good idea and neither do your words you people

4

the opposite of chaos is chaos and no reversing moving places through a colored screen words dance across like chicken scratching much love a little too soon a match skidded across sand some car got fired from this quaint to have you next to me in my drool spool pile where laundry i think vacuum whenever we talk it all comes up beer at a table so high it’s like standing sitting but we havent found a folded unfolded table you know a patch of undercover spring spray a weathered vine attempt to deforest the winter frost make a music finger of the one time only sky and take a second snow

5

that cat pissed in the sink and let the water boil over it’s not the first time it will be the last if you see me in the mirror run because i’ll take you down to the ends of your precipice that ketchup oven idea is what’s so in your mouth last to overcome its last fast and run attitude to green covers catch you in your thought came into onion and danced did in fact drink too many gin gimlets thatts forte too much for this planet say to the camera something everyone is waiting to hear that this weekend is the last blasted pat you get the whiff of my oh god i could kill something what marks you i cleaned from the sliding glass door to the backyard so we couldn’t do anything but look and cry that’s where i grew up in weeds mud and trash thrown over the fence from the ally from the past take and make it mood they want us to make sensible haiku of favorite fast mind that mind that magic crisp dirt mind a hot house this cat knows what catches clothes flames what avoids them without reason without ears without whiskers like whiskers in case the other in case i forgot i should replace something i forgot

6

proverbial angel in a tea house takes its wig and sets fire to the ends of leaf lives take that down on paper set fire to kill the matter i see snow through you and the outline of paper clothes soaked in snow makes you disappear don’t climb near the furnace factory guts exposed to the elements oh sailors oh water around face of earth oh you in the mirror of the moon you are the peach fuzz of the facade called volcanic disappointment i grew up in mexico and never ate a burrito when the world ended it looked like this he said and shot the espresso exposing each atom’s caffeine trap i just sank my teeth into the table fruit by the door as it snows we never save the day may it close

7

my in and outside space covers clover and saplings by the brook in a white village of fences we breathe and exhale all day long the tip of your tongue touches since we cannot see the cold of being lost beneath a bridge of cement connected to towering walls of cement, cement beneath our feet in a picture of death we dream about ocean and it’s before seconds build into interminable space seizures of early to bed ladies we without a flag are in the whole comet touching noses and toes we lie in a frying pan in our backyard wizardland and everything’s handed to us in a troubled plane we intercept balls thrown though green turf isn’t space game but bouncing ground to test the time it takes to collapse that bridge

8

mithra snipped out of newspaper said regard her up high in regaled blue i wonder occasionally at the silence of my body this morning i am in silent regard of process the ends are inexistent and that’s the trailhead marked up in the forest the nature i am in the state of regard for a moment in bed this sense of doing things for those i love and life writing reading expresses my need to live this doesn’t make sense to me either please don’t worry that you’re lost and i see that i am not a poor writer in fact i am down under the rest of the world i am zarathustra nitzche i have just begun to limbo this rest of the manuscript and it’s ok to need to be still it’s ok this thing likes to fly away while i hold it closer that is the thing of love i love this makes me mingle with foreigners and i love that too i love love the winged bug on my forearm while i write he is perhaps asexual as we spoke of in the soft light of discussion predetermined nothing freewill is in the free bin of decision and that’s ok to arrange and rearrange words words have a notion a nothing and it’s strange to see you here in place with me it’s strange that you’re right next to the state of ocean in me running through my veins this time the office has its light on at the right time we are running a cable through the wall we will sit there until we’re done