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on not human enough for the census, by Erik Fuhrer:
http://isacoustic.com/2019/08/29/not-human-enough-for-the-census-poems-erik-fuhrer/
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on Something Akin To, by Kaleigh Maeby:
http://isacoustic.com/2019/08/29/something-akin-to-poems-kaleigh-maeby/
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on Hijito, by Carlos Andrés Gómez:
http://isacoustic.com/2019/08/26/hijito-poems-carlos-andres-gomez/
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a lonely child makes no fist and snow arrives to draw a snake. I mean to chew but forget. your knock-knock jokes have gotten better. I don’t hate your stories. the head-kisser’s
bowling
score.
tornado that lost our emptiness.
–
about the baby,
has it forgotten how to smoke
–
mom she rolled ache into our socks at a gas station
–
there’s no one to tell
my eyes
I’m early
–
to the quiet of egg sac
anthill
are ankles
lost
–
–
of her son’s feeding tube, she says the shadow in her stomach has pulled off its ears
–
distance is the god of those who don’t need rest
–
would any one of you cut the baby
into thirds
to make
me a mother?
–
is that circle dead?
–
Nicole Melchionda:Anti-Heroin Chic is an inclusive journal that aims to explore the gritty depths of the human experience. When you started this project, was your primary goal to unify others, to fill some kind of emptiness, or something else entirely? Have your goals evolved over time?
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in your ear is a spider afraid of the way I swim.
I remain made of
nothing
the winningest
prophet
if I could love them all, they wouldn’t be here. movies make her father angry. he asks her what is always trapped but never surrounded. her heart is an owl with a heart. mirror, she says, but doesn’t. a rain relearns the earth.
Hijito
poems, Carlos Andrés Gómez
Platypus Press, 2019
~
Somewhere between the ‘sly mirror‘ and ‘taut mirage’ of Hijito, poet Carlos Andrés Gómez sees ourselves in ourselves and then goes about the tender flesh-work of putting us there. Though I’m not sure we can keep death from acting like a child, or that we can trace the living back to life, the humane spacing claimed in this verse allows room for all to believe that to make dust of our chalk supply we must age death with our knowledge of where its bodies are. No matter how intricately dead we find ourselves while fixing the hair of the young and ruminating on how suddenly another thing exists to put a crib toy in its mouth, Gómez plays the long game in deconstructing the alibis oft given by brevity and, in doing so, reveals precision to be just another disguise…
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Something Akin To
poems, Kaleigh Maeby
Dink Press, 2019
~
If, beneath those who argue the font of absence, there is one under the table who, while dreamily reporting on the feast, renders a remix unmothered might it usher the original into being, then this one may be one of many reading or writing poet Kaleigh Maeby’s deceptively freeing collection Something Akin To. Odd, local, and sovereign, the work is a fragmentary gathering of thrice-lost things, to include the repetitive body, the faceless child, the knee of the ant. These entries as written are either memo or epitaph, and Maeby understands each as the separated twin of the love letter and adjusts accordingly the abrupt lullaby of the duo’s teased sleep. I believe in clear and close and sparse art such as this, as it leaves to the imagination the downfall of those children of Goliath who here and…
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kingsoftrain 