COMPLETE APPARITION POEMS 20092014 BOLD FORMAT ADAM FIELED
Black-shirted, bright eyes in dream-blues, parents dead of a car crash, I kissed her so long I felt as if I would crash, South Street loud around us, lips soft—
A patch of white light appeared on my wall late last night. It was no shadow. I thought it might be a cross, I thought it might be a sign, but by the time I turned my head, it was gone. I thought
I want to last— to be the last of the last of the last to be taken by time, but the thing about time is that it wants, what it wants is us, all of us wane quickly for all time’s ways, sans “I,” what I wants—
There comes a time history’s viability in impressing us goes out our mind’s eye, we are ghosts then, we join the “rest of,” until someone’s lips hips us to secrets, in case we forgot, that nothing ever happed, nothing ever got writ.
I said, “I can’t even remember the last time I was excited, how can I associate ideas?” She pulled out a gun, a tube of oil, and an air cushion, and it was a spontaneous overflow, powerfully felt, in which we reaped together—
If I had Neko Case for one night, I’d dip her red hair in red wine, suck it dry, bathe her in honey, dive into what’s pink and blue, roll out the red carpet. If I had Neko Case for one night, I’d part the Red Sea to make her come, come pangs, needles, she’s stiff from ecstasy, I’m freckle-fucked. If I had Neko Case I would never leave my bed again; I’d lay, awake to music, voices, ether, never doubt Heaven exists on Earth, between throats, notes, legs.
Is art slightly less stupid than everything else? I am more moved by flesh, and stupidly, how easily some skin peels off layers of text— “company of blood,” Lucy on a bed with diamonds—
Poems are train-wrecks that move— to stand on tracks, to do so solidly, is suicide of a high order— to die by force of wreckage—
Metaphysics of Facebook— how many pictures can one woman upload? She sits on a shag carpet, or, in a leotard, dances, or drinks a beer, arm around a disheveled mate— all possible selves captured for Net priceless and free discrete but not—
I love you, I love you, I love you— clouds are moving in behind us, storms are forming in front, blue sky purple, green grass yellow, all things pale to this dark—
As a child, I reached up, towards my Mother; as a man, as I reach, I am deep down in earth, or I reach out to find air, nothing to mother me, emptiness, soot & ash.
Sometimes you write from ocean’s bottom, blue waters bury you, an octopus comes to give you ink, tentacle words, fortitude for battles to get back on the surface, where you must fight to get past jellyfish blocks, tears—
How I wanted her! Everything pointed me into her— gossamer silk over her belly black panties head turned towards me— I nailed her to my wall, I nailed her— she never forgave me
It is by dint of great labor that lines heap up on one another (enjambed or not), it is by dint of great labor that they take on the cast, die, substance that sticks, it is by dint of great labor that poets must forget this, because to stick means not to stick, it means to loosen perpetually out of grooves, let things topple into place, let shapes manifest slowly, let life meander, be rolling—