and there I was, sad
my robot
giving hell
to an elevator
and I was forty-one
and still not there
the day that kid
got beat up
for keeping sadness
close
and I was never the poorest
in any room
is this what being poor means or meant
grief
that we can brush at the fossil
of grief
Jon Cone has four poems at ~isacoustic~
I have no memory that is not a silence we sang in unison
is this a ghost or the future of my teeth
is your dad still a god
I interpret the wrong dream
do you
forget
for you I would covet the broken arm of a snake
in grief’s
heaven
shape is a future fashioned from god’s inability to reflect
–
(she thinks her hair came from an egg. she is not alone.)
–
there’s nothing in the food
was a clarity to being beaten. to arriving before clockwork. a clarity also in the poems of his abuser. psalm and caricature. snail and gasmask. I miss hand, he’d say. because it misses raft.
life is a shapelessness to which form describes its pilgrimage
dream a grave dreaming
of a cactus
for nothing’s
crow
the bridge
the broken arm
of god.
the ventriloquist, her immortal canary…
birth the jackpot
hit
by grief. a wiseman
mourning
her third
son.
