Landman, Seth | May he be handwritten in the Minutes
Early Arrival
Every palm-held patient feels little in the hand and much in the badge. I chart tides in books, poems about, of, no guile, no guide, not a single feeling on the ferry. Let’s suppose, we play. We play at practical, cook the books, make repairs. The plan is made. Besides having to see Paris, there are times there is God, grafted and famous in home-colors. The lightning swift, the forms selective. Great rivers of procedural curve. Like a pop song breaking on the grain, these are the long hydraulics of the caterwaul. I’m going to teach you how to listen to the science of the laws of any similar sound, to draw pictures of pasture. To roll the pedal over. Love’s a snowstorm, statewide, a synopsis of ice. Usually I miss it, so official and desked in, speaking a new language in the middle of the night. A sign is the end of hints. Publicity as true concern for the path of the mouth. I wonder at hat and gloves of advanced good. Piles of wild. Anthem after anthem on flower parts so like us though safe on the river. Here is the gift of fibers and adding up. Popular parts of songs orbiting the lawn. Walking by a warm house on a cold night, I hear clinking glasses and smell the light. For the radio deals. Why we love what there is in addendum and dodge like human beings. Adapt, and company comes. All around, souvenirs, face to face, hidden years.
Autobiographical
Call me Lion. Show me a boat.
Be with me in the evening
of conflict. A child on the water,
left alone for a whole career,
the epitome of fate. A tattoo
on the heart, I am in a book a lot,
I am fine. With little or no,
with maps, with showboat fissures
on the heart. Full traffic
seeks a way if these are the last
three seconds, a noted choir
fights for all my shorthand fortunes.
Massachusetts reports on through
the night. The power to see it
through spinning. How do you talk
out a shelf containing art?
In case this day is mental
New Year’s, and you, model bride,
solider on to sailor town.
Post-loveliness, your cosmopolitan
heart is not happy here next
door to a stenographer.
And a toll on notes and vocab.
You prop your head on a pillow
and have a nightmare of fangs and claws.
Five bears under the north star.
You couldn’t twice bear it and so
you flew the coop. Can’t find
a sister in the United States,
and your hairy fears guide these
airborne, blind, patriot days.
As such, the one-act turn bleeds
out the theater from Broadway to L.A.
Junior snitches on daddy
and we are in awe from Halloween
to Thanksgiving. I wear my sad, low
mask and howl out under water
where my sound carries from grandpa
to grandpa. Snow to snow. A buried
range over which a frisbee flies.
It’s blue on the white world
before we ever take a step,
before frostbite ever quiets us
with such ultimately fond intentions.
both poems first published in(audibly) Eye, Swole
