cheering up leon werthTo Léon Werthcheering up leon werth by zebrazebrazebra
I ask the indulgence of the children who may read this book for dedicating it to a grown-up. I have a serious reason: he is the best friend I have in the world. I have another reason: this grown-up understands everything, even books about children. I have a third reason: he lives in France where he is hungry and cold, he needs cheering up. If all these reasons are not enough, I will dedicate the book to the child from whom this grown-up grew. All grown-ups were once children-although few of them remember it. And so I correct my dedication:
To Léon Werth, When he was a little boy
dear teen meDear Sarah,dear teen me by zebrazebrazebra
Remember that time you tried to top yourself by hiding under the covers? That was hilarious. I remember you tugging at the edges of the blanket and praying, without a shred of scientific evidence, that the lack of oxygen would be enough to kill you. You sat under there for something like fifteen minutes before you gave up and went to make a sandwich. But while you were under there, choking a little on your pillow because you never washed your sheets, I remember you thought someone was watching. Someone who understood your suffering. Someone who understood you.
Kid, that was me. And I've got two words for you: man up. Life can get a whole lot harder than this. Before too much longer, it's going to. And by the time you get to my age, you're going to be glad.
Why were you
descentour love is an old bikedescent by zebrazebrazebra
dodging cars in the summer,
built of rust and dirt and spin
and two spoked stars:
kisses falling into the long lope
between hills and heat,
the height of the seat,
your face like a kid with a bell
or the swell of a shout,
the flash of a wheel as the sun
hits it, or both brakes squealing
as the wind skims down
to meet us, hands in your hair:
and we take the slope
like kings in the swing
of things, arms out, heads high
even as the dip rolls dry.
metamorphosisHe's caught the green bugmetamorphosis by zebrazebrazebra
and the shape of him stumbles,
wound up and resounding like a spring;
a tumbling flower, or a man in heat deseated
who's caught the green bug like rain on the tongue.
Now he's coiled tit to thigh, skin twitching like a gadfly
and shaping a rare round amen to the sob of it,
the sheer glorious throb of it: the dirty thumb
pressing on the seeds in spring, the storms
and showers working hour to hour
at the nonsense of being
while down in the garden
his body becomes a boyish stamen
and aiming between the eyes of the sky
he splits himself, spitting aphids and sucking
at the ground, the euclidian sway of his petals
hounding for water, begging for sound: he settles
and stops in the earth, all naked and green.
He cannot tell the round arse of a tulip
from the sun. No, he cannot run,
and the mayflies are dying
one by one by one.
The Plight of the Gentilea hundred thousand capybara came outThe Plight of the Gentile by tiganusi
of a manhole on third avenue by the river
walked up third
and over to Bronx Zoo
to liberate their cousins
and back down third down past the Bowery Ballroom
and the skeleton of CBGB
and onto the Brooklyn Bridge
I should have known:
something was coming ;
the Haredim in Williamsburg were off the streets
at business-open on a Thursday ;
I assumed it was Saturday ;
I left the house to empty streets—assumed I was hung-over ;
I hadn't slept off Friday ;
I hallucinated a guinea pig the size of a Fiat
eating my neighbour's garbage bags
and his two square feet of yard
a casual lover fucked me that night
with loud victorious abandon ;
we were dancing a lemonjuice capoeira
all kicks and burning abrasions ;
we were a jaguar and an anaconda
debating dinner plans in snaps and jumps ;
the capybaras took Prospect Park Zoo that night
liberating their ance
untitledall these booksuntitled by boundlessgravity
I brought to read
in a pile
beside your hair
Cricket PhilosophersI wonder if crickets chirpCricket Philosophers by zippip
to bring out the stars
or count them as they appear.
Or are they yelling for a breeze
like churlish old men
yelling for the AC to be turned on,
or perhaps they're arguing cricket politics
in a town hall of tall grass walls.
But I really like to think
they're a thousand poet philosophers
who only live for seven months
and spend their brief time
trying to explain it.
RegularInRegular by antonfrost
A New Hope,
the tractor beam,
a few stormtroopers
to stand guard.
"Give me regular
Then walks off.
I was confused
as a boy,
because to me
"Tell me everything
is the same,
even if it's
was plain oatmeal,
I was not
when the rebels
It was just
Tessa.We laid you in the earth
as the day reached its close.
The afternoon's thunderstorms
passed to the east and in the west
the sun burned brilliant,
its diurnal death a ruddy kiss
upon our swollen cheeks.
That morning you looked at me
from the backseat and suddenly
you knew what we meant by
"it's time." And you let go so quick,
so quiet – your tail thumped, thumped
against the clinic floor, then stopped;
your face was a calm, golden yellow.
The tears did not come then
in the office, transactional and sterile,
but as my bare feet picked up the rain
lingering upon the backyard grass –
here where you scouted out smells
and followed us children about,
nosing our pockets for something tasty.
Tonight, the hollyhocks are in bloom
beside the old oak tree in whose
shade you curled up, contented
as you aged to simply watch over us
and paw at the occasional acorn.
You never asked for much – a little lov
The DetailsHer hair:
cropped short and brilliantly fair everywhere
but the roots. There, fragments of dull dilute her,
whiskey thinned by water.
lack the sheen of new and the wear of old,
that in between that makes her blend, that make her
indistinguishable unless properly apprehended.
Left-right, left-right, left-right, left behind
her group that rushes out, drunk on undefined
fates and the sort of drinks that make you forget that this is not
the sedate part of town.
And he wonders what it is like
just to breathe.