AMY KING









On The Ounce That Sells Us Out

 

 

Bounced a planet of lateral artery

—blue that brings stark bone home—

in case anything crawled along

 

A serious street, marmalade chin,

the choir of crying mothers in barn love

                                                          with alcohol for all

 

On top of my name, devotions, no woman,

chain whips and lovers:  coffee is how

I get other

                       countries into my body.

 

I used to do this at home, now I go outside           and pay someone.

 

The bold-faced retractable flesh spills          over bleached,

adjusting newfangled business          cards waiting for a tip

that never reveals itself in the light of sight

 

Except through the force that pushes, not so much mixed

as mixed up.

 

I.e.  A simple disturbance of walking into and away from

people I’ve never met

 

Clearly edges out the competition who don’t own their own

 

                                                           pain

                                                                                 yet.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Never Off the Menu

 

 

I’m not certain, but I don’t think

the male breast feels

the same as a woman’s.  Somehow,

too much gasoline feeds

through our bloodstreams

and claims

the invasiveness of any procedure

will tell its way into

daily household movements. 

 

Nor do I separate my tongue

from the intellects of normal,

an equator on the psychotic

readiness of ordinary purpose.

 

Instead, I am but one mode,

jarred and sequestered

in my little star cubicle.

 

We project dark birds in everything,

hardly too blonde, too clear, to recite: 

 

Little agent, legs of petals,

you were never off the menu,

and I am quite enjoying this.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Everyone Has a Decision To Make

 

 

A never was careful about the number

of books he chose to perpetrate.

 

A’s lack of frugality, indiscrimination.

 

A knew better, but distracted, allowed

the whole lot, from Paris to China

to seashore to in between to embrace

to so we are at war to the wind’s hooks

to a cloud of flies to we are each one

of us is we to finding the homeless

in statues of former friends to deliverance.

 

Let me guess a way to your brain:  A-lite and A-tragic.

 

Dear A, you put pen down for, or A, you forgo the rest. 

 

I’ve sat through two and quiver into the third round.

My hand has sometimes been pointed out

an abusive thing, at times, unsteady.

 

Hunger, never defined.  Frequently applied in A.

 

Use these things before being so ordered.  Find at least

one version of a predicament in A:  whatever you want,

you will, like a literate insect, fabricate or radiate. 









 






Amy King
 is the author of the poetry collection, Antidotes for an Alibi (Blazvox Books 2005), and the chapbook, The People Instruments (Pavement Saw Press Chapbook Award 2002).  She currently teaches Creative Writing and English at Nassau Community College and is the managing editor for the literary arts journal, MiPOesias (www.mipoesias.com).   Her second full-length collection, I'm the Man Who Loves You, will appear early in 2007.   Please visit  www.amyking.org for more.






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