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Poetry || SubmissionsPoems by Anne BoulenderANXIETY IN SUMMER A handprint on a window may as well be the tale of a frantic attempt to escape a gauge of exile estimating air gone absolutely stale and finally unbreathable Everyday brings the same last resorts, the organ music of altar calls where the neck of a wooden giraffe breaks off consider facing the turned back of God for The span of eternity Neither a yes nor a no God says truth many say lies many say lies are what does not feel good they must not believe in that Then God says wrath A man says leave me alone he is running home, he is looking for a place to hang his whole day of cold mornings an entire circle turning dire dire dire spinning tires "Leave me alone" The man is crawling home each inch is a knife stabbing his side his blood writes the word slowness across the sky a lone Hebrew in the desert, leashed like a slave to his escape a descriptionless girl The night sky is chasing my youth home I must get there before it catches up with me or else i will lose my gender completely, being old and alone a hole is burning in my womb maybe a son or a daughter agonizing in their non existence perhaps a baby has fallen out of my arms where i could not carry them through the night it is my sobstory a labor of nothing, a bedful of nothing, myself and my lover, nothing a handful of nothing hard at work inside me until a blankness is achieved where everything regrettable can be forgotten i enter myself like machinery harvesting abortions lonely enough to drink with the wolves in the lonely regions of night immersion in a carafe of unsorted tears and masturbation loneliness is the great American pastime we are all Edward hopper paintings we are all sitting on bar stools looking out the window we are drinking our wine before its time where all bets are off, where loneliness is the universal identification method and we are all patriotic Poem "When wife is a four letter word, the song my brother's executioner is humming" ----Wie soll ich meine Seele halten, Da sie nicht an deine rhrt? (How am I to contain my spirit lest it touch yours) Rilke, Lovesong-- Does it not make sense that exhausted air would refuse you to breathe it in for his exhaustion? Call him the man you have eaten or one of many necessities whatever, when there is no more of him to suck up when the supply is cut off. imagine the treat of a thief to this darling air gone fetid, taking him away where he needn't be inhaled she will watch unconcerned when he goes stagnant for good The hour of her opportunity has passed his use is up she has already been compensated for her insignificance. the grand larcenist in temporary need of a storage space. with injurious hospitality applicable only for the cornered, only for the desperate say she is a bit comely not at all his usual habit, that little shangri la misses his and her little kamikaze kisses made with retrograde I ching is only German and English for lies, for faith is only a fling for the tyranny of one, for the tyranny of terrible where I is the only agenda, where I is the only god in the sky Where I is the divisor breaking down the unit of one over and over again until it is no longer divisible until it is too meaningless for the axe to split Ich ing, I ing see what I mean There are no secrets the indistinction of whoredom cant keep the dead men in her bed hidden forever ich ing ich ing sooner or later you lie unraisable inside the iron lung, the defiled marriage bed Ding dong when that witch is dead there wont be much left to take from your head Poem "Sorrow for Sale" tell me a story voyage, tell me the story of stars to say all sorrow is wrong and beneath them tell me the story of jets whose gigantic engines transport the sorrowful Tell me a future funeral say to me with the thick accent of the dead woman that I am forgiven into that family of tomorrow. torment day after day slave labor with no day off i am a girl for the garbage a clientele of cruel masters with a fistful of whips and one dollar bills the gratuity of their lashings the honesty of dreams permits a beautiful bed morbid for its single size mercifully narrow leaving no room for pigs Transplanted in human bodies, if the heart cant beat on its own accord cut it out and insert possessed swine. a week ago i put my hand away the season for it is over it did not perform its task flawlessly, it snagged itself on the heart, the mind and its thoughts the body is connected, even more so then gridlines which ironically say everything truthful and absolutely for not being obvious object such as there is no tree without its root no humanity without the dust nothing of matter without a molecule a man is getting ready to leave he is heading out the door into extreme weather not sure if he will burn or freeze but anticipating some sort of damage to incur he is going to meet his maker and get the facts set straight, once and for all, straight as the lines in the grid that block off the simplicity of truth, his lover his ease his destination his everlasting life a friend who is a mother who is a wife to a husband who is dutiful to the wants of his laziness whose wife is springtime in full bloom shut off in a dark room, in a slum of chanceless children who may or may not be stabbed by the spike of accidental sunlight. Poem " To my darling Max who says fuck you far too many times to the world and that devoted woman in it" Everything is death, cut open a head sharp implements will find it waiting there a biopsy is performed, a piece of the brain is taken out useless. The head will not admit a cure nor will the surgeon insert one, how safe of him to wear tight gloves and a mask. now is certainly the time to kill the liars favorite songs singing to their dishonesty, to their conceit how they fancy all things around them as unworthy or much like them themselves, the cunts and the rapists of trust arrogance longs for its match how they admire each other, right down to the very last lie they orgasm and make loss with eachother they have nothing to do with angels but they wouldn't know, they have no idea of the butchering to come, the liars have made so much silence and grief suffering and coca cola, thats my day job for I have failed, i have failed to make anyone understand coca cola, the black milk of every glutton, the great American pastime i say hello to sloth and avarice they are discussing unimportance and divorce by the water cooler while all hell is breaking loose the road goes by and soon enough you die, the front seat or the back it doesn't matter where you are when the oncoming traffic won't slow down milk and honey are no good, too much is the same as not enough we know this and dont know it bitterness is a grand patina, its a wonderful way for a coward to hide behind time becoming his own redeemer i have known the words and said them all it was a huge waste of my time i could now care less i could now go insane i could now feel everything unbearable i could create my own adversity and congratulate myself for overcoming it im sorry when its too hot im sorry when its too cold, i apologize for the opportunity they give to give up im sorry that the night is long and there is nothing new to raise the sun with im sorry that the night has already been there and done that years ago A brave little candle blows out, I give it my remorse we have each bid farewell to endurance. Anne Boulender says "I am not very interesting and work full time as an unhappy hairdresser. I spend my free time being exhausted. I am 25 and obviously of the female persuasion." Ariga says her poetry is much more energetic than she would have us believe from her self-description. She also says her favorite poets are Charles Simic, Rilke, Paul Eluard, Paul Celan, Sylvia Plath. You may write to her. Today's Situation
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