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Two Poems


Gregg Biglieri

JOHNNY QUEST IN AZERBAIJAN
 
Go blind
Mon cheval.
Kill a little
Less like kittens.
Let proof
Speak thick.
 
Whisper vespers
Darkling—
Anagram’s lash
Bats eyes.
 
At noon
No one bleeds
Vanilla.
Meatyard—it’s
What’s not
A metaphor.
 
Stars pop
Glow-apricot
Bent knees
Tuck force
Popeye
Goes ambient.
 
Old ripped
Down out
Of dun
Drifts indoors
A din.
 
Light-stilled panic
A little bit
Of bird kiss
About it.
 
Skeleton keys—
You are
My army.
 
I like
You better
Than talking
To a mirror.

Perhaps I’ve
Overstated
Your welcome.
 
Homonyms
Know I love
Them both.
Some thing
Sounds familiar
Reading echoes
Hooked on
Words’ ebb.
 
Grammar—
Twice like
A stiletto.
 
The literal
Turns on
The literal—
Spins on its
Own excess.
 
That’s where
You come in.
We can only bend
Time so much
To get out
Of people.
 
Shelled
A peanut noun
Speeds across
A mackerel sky.
 
High lid
Let down
To hawk at
A fly.

 
Let leaflet
Speak in
Tongues.
Say they
See dawn’s
Chevrolet.
 
Come night
We eye
Love’s last violet
Cropped.
 
 
 
 
I WAS ELFING IN A GROTTO
Poem beginning with a line from Nick Lawrence
 
“I was elfing in a grotto”
Sucking pebbles and talking like her.  So,
We began to chalk out an aesthetics
Of Sweettarts.  The litmus test of mussing
Your hair.  The slip into always
The tortoise and the hairline
Fracture.  I’ve come here to miss
 
Myself as I Miss America.  There,
In the grotto of my glottal stop, translating
Celan into cellophane, the fanatic
Poetics of “shook foil.”  Hop o’ My Thumb,
Through God’s grand, gritty glands
I danced like a “Woman at the
Virginals.”  I came to miss myself, an
 
Orphan, missing my “s” for my elf.  The
Trees for the forest.  I miss you,
But there is no “I” in “you.”
“I” feels like un chien d’etat.  The state
Whistles Dick’s chin music.  Even sitting down
 
I feel the itch of the cheetah.  If you
Remember, I am a member of the “I” caste.
One man’s limpidity is
Another’s limp.  Ambiguity is
Ready to rock.  I chase Tet.
 
Books buckle under snow.
Thel, your inner Venus,
Hath a slow fury
To cuddle what escapes you.
 
There is no such thing
As a surgical sublime:  in the vaunted
Wall of noise, sound watches
Walls wash over you.
 
Hooks sweeten hearts
As a woozy gouache lures
And surges.  Shoegaze never died—
It simply reproduced the value
Of knowing a second language,
 
Furring forever, leaving fear
Far away in a bedroom of
Infarcted eyes, purring
“It’s never too late
For a happy childhood.”