Tuesday, December 23, 2014

Alice Sally Ashaka Fier Fear Fire Stone (part 1 Sevastopol Piano)

Jesse S. Mitchell

1. She was born in that whirlwind of anguish, mammalian,
    An X chromosome in each clenched fist.
    Gripping tight, that burning bright, whatever you can mold, not a mockery, not a rage, whatever you can
    And grinding down the pauper, that miserly age, not a avarice but afraid, a breeze too thin to be a wind,
    Too light,
    To do any perceptible good.
     Her feet moving slowly, skating sock covered feet across the bare wood, the rug rolled up, crumpled corners.
    She clicks her fingertips on the keys, making voices.
    Double spaced the tiger, so the lion-lines don’t get blurry.
    Beats out a rhythm, syllabic, in a flurry.
    And devil faced the inquiry, because post-structuralism tells us more about ourselves
    Than any of us ever want to truly know.
    Give up.  Palms up for the alms, the golden shining charity of surrender.  Let go.
    She throws herself down on her bed.  Back aching.  Skin cold.
She slides her hand down.  Towards her waist band, her fingers feel her skin, the backs of her hands rough against denim.
    It started as a masturbatory action but it lost all its charm as the energy drained from deep in her core and fled low into the bed.  Gone.
   She stares up at the clicking clock, tick tock, tries to disassemble the seconds as they pass, make them
   Analyses.  Her thick glasses, the glare too glutinous. She dissects those minutes, dying by the thousands
   All around.  Separate the moments from the fluidity of  the duration of experience, like notes from the
   Melody.  This one here.  That one there.
   Hum along.
    The Sevastopol piano in the other room creaks heavy on the floor.  Inadequate the support.  The rotten
    Retort of things too delicate for the work, emaciated.  Placated by her sympathies, her mind is eased.
    Most of the worries cease.  The structures remain.  Safety.  Complacent in the assurance.

Friday, December 12, 2014

Shelterland 0.1

Jesse S. Mitchell

 And I vow, here and now, to keep the utterances flowing,
To speak, speak and speak until poetry is a Magdalen at my feet, washing,
The blushing rush of blood.
       There are no more cults of believers.
       There is no more clangings of bells.
       And when winter comes, it is because it is cold
       And it wants no more of summer, of sun.
The world now, simply turns.
The oceans now, just open placidity, but broken by waves.
And mountains now, just open plains, but rumpled crushed for shattered bones.
       But in papal exiles in Avignon,
       With Vedic spits upon my tongue,
       I swear this is no tomorrowland
       No havenland
Take shelter
Take shelterland
If only in a dreaming.   

Monday, December 1, 2014


Jesse S. Mitchell

Was Meinong wrong?
Marauding sense of impropriety, like the law of parsimony, are words not objects,
Little ricochet devils, that knock the drinks from hands, tilting hanging pictures on the walls,
Uttering unspeakable, soft and small, between something Cartesian, something Newtonian,
Logical, bite back, the great unstifling of everything.
Soft hands
Marching feet.
Fight back, those syllabic spirits that only care about the cold, or the unfeeling, the goose pimples flesh, only about the mess they can make, escaping the lips, wild.
That only know of chemical imbalance like dopamine rush, endorphin tingle, blood blush in the end, a song.
Only wants you, covertly, contently, quiet and subtle, an echo, under the tongue, a whisper, a murmur, a diphthong.