terri friedman
uscha pohl
simon bill
robert antoni
max henry
max henry: 5 contemporary poets next

The Emergence of the Moment

graven images chew
themselves out of the
ver and scrolling into a

Screened-in existence

The wine becomes bitter,
This sweet elixir now a
Goad under the national flesh.

A winding out will take place.
The oases of parking are now only dried
dunes, the flat

no of the thing rings. I don't.
Don't have any of it, the
games of sandy squelches, the "it's over" of the repetitive "having."

Sonnet to an Age of Graceless Frustration in Absentia

or the berries are ripe, and Hansel and Gretel go forth
To gather. On mopeds and cattle trains,
These people seem to be good gatherers.

Swinging low the sweetest volte-face says Sundays's the worst,
Stretching the circuit of paths thru a Malay-like slaughterland.
But soccer moms polish rims, noontide.
Here my tones dip; they too, though polished, never quite gather up the

Impetus to bridge the gap. Gap. And the vying babies.
Children killing ants? Come off it. Get off the review stand,
My Captain, your cherry tea is done. Your Chevette knows not of your
Myriad internal crimes.
The seats, as in that old theater we spoke of day before Mono, are gone.
I seem to believe a cubbyhole opens upward towards justification.

Untitled (Sane Gray Road)

the grilled;
deckwood beliefs, so
just stack engine on engine
and ensconce in mesh--
(the marigolds kick up to sub-terre patterns)
he clocked the substance, found it among leaves, bombilating

and laying down on your side by the sakrete pad
the small cone of dirt skirted by twigs suffers
inversion to a developed vul-vais.
drops in on itself, the drops on it, promoting
said sickness (what) so ringing in your ears.
so long. now it's come "in" to "stay"-- an arepartee.

out along the pampas. cotton. eaten.
men's eyes sheen. wet along the banisters, a kansas city sound

(and all this implies, many pampas)

I see, and hold to it, that the grass resembles and
is moving in actually to
the state & grace of a still-published city.

But how hell else? but
what comes to a surface? Faring well at the Bellum's.
Din-din's on the level. Surfacing. And so

face me.
Sincure, re-bolden.

...now the wan button how can one get into it, like loving red pampas?
Folding, pleaing, a drive into the Mojave,

wedging off the lettuce.

The Streets of Grain, etc.

--Come be the one that succors you?
...that stopping, grinds upwards

back, then, near the eight when we were still children
things were in a jello-like state.
Back up. I don't steal these things. Sure I lied
But the accounts came clean
and you go fuck your tapes, like it was a
lotted open vein.

So beg
So you beg for

Expectations of the screams in the dark.


More expectations.
All the prime real estates are filled up by the dead--
isn't this wet withsweat and firma?

Was charlie in swinging of daisies, like

"the desert"/?/

playing the wall so she'll come to

Stay the mast.
they've got one in every
state I've been to

and that means it'll all be of the connector type.

Trashy blanc sentimentality boiling down

(just don't make me suffer)

But you put sand in it,

in the brackets

from this vantage it varies and the blue becomes

The Beckoning Light of the


We serve liners;

But then the road goes to them

a blank green sign, or one of those fancy ones with scrollwork and
lots of stain--

No flies buzzing, the opposite being parsimonious and dynamic.

trailers and first parts?

The candle burns on, the tallow sinks into the windowsill.
The street sweepers stand lined in disrepair,
this could be soft drippings,
but they made it, put the rocks in it,
so how can it be signed?
Punks deal with the papered walls, a piano
saddles itself, we might ought to be burying.
A bore and a store, another
a night of piebald ancient police actions, as they
would come up in the glassy eye of the Shakes.
Will it that it be prospect that clears up what finds an end to a shower here?
Look how he's got his tongue.

Cramped space between silver and glass, and
it's real, there's a crack in the frame, you can see it, look, bend down here,
see that one?

Robie Craig is the author of If in the Wilderness You Find Elemental, American Sonnets