plan b audio five
a portmanteau of crimes
committed on the bodies of
laborers. too confused
to properly track their prey. my
face leaves. because it’s high
and the sky is crowded. because
paulownia. my arm is scarred
and sticks out against the
dark. because i am the
background. because soon
animals will be eaten. the
laborers did not revolt. their
bodies were not revolting. i
don’t like either side. contradictory
fashion for laborers, for
animals. my face is willing.
a room filled yet empty. the
background is financial. a
broken sky is evidence. of winter,
of paulownia. the identity of
nets catching invisible prey. the
stupor of it, of revolts in broken
winter, where belabored bodies are the
background of solitude and
happenstance. the illusion of
logic may heal the mind but
today the ramparts are possessed
by feeling and panoramic huts. each
breath savored for its effort. every
awkward step. for the sake of.
discussion. dissolving into
beams of frenzied impossible
yearning. through wickets
of doldrum and bureaucratic
spoils. seaweed-like.
in small pieces.
plan b audio six
liquid determination
a disappearing door
the gardener enters
to tend to the fields of my crotch
decaying quivering
raking the leaves
creating odd potholes for driverless cars
in an era of exits
plan b audio seven
greying sky
what forces the mountains
to hide behind the clouds
above the planet
in the mind
a river of blue veins
a deep snow
falling elsewhere
how naked i’ve become
why does death
seep from my pores
cleaning the air of its stupor
near a pond
a body on a road
as if replaced
suffocated by sight
the “e” is silent
so must i be
my chewed vagina
a vanishing self
former namesake
fallen tree
looking diseased
pains me thoroughly
cutting through memory
broken water
sounding dead
long range missile
alternative truth
scrap metal
a gloomy oak tree
pinned to a wall
vast solitude
something like a person
a lucid cave
humble in its theater
free flowing doldrums
a drum of pink water
dull on my skin
a stationary wind
stepping beyond
a horizon of objects
bees atop flowers
perfumes in springtime
my greedy vulva
folded yukata
blue and white on tatami
large holes in the shoji
dead science of understanding
forming a sinkhole
sliver of grief
full of enemy corpses
on a street
aligned with nothing
another valley
without land
of the rocky spur
beyond the garden
row of visitors
smell of death
beard and tuxedo
on the television set
teeth like a dinosaur
entering the hospital
X-ray on a screen
shop of horrors
man with a hacking cough
it must be cancer
private thought
patient attached to a machine
her pallid face
thin and scared
rustling of uniforms
a beeper goes off
the sound of dying
heavy rain
plum blossoms on concrete
bar code on my wrist
too much whiskey
a face resembling
a crumpled sheet
lavender gloves on a table
pink curtain
embraces a dirty window
small intestine of trees
looks out over a great
expanse of burnt skin
each beginning an ending
marching orders
false embrace
ulnar nerve
knife through the heart
life of language
old fable
long gone
my empty uterus
in a world of mistranslation
reporting every blunder
the eldest maiko leaves home at sunset
to all appearances a human being
tossed aside
in eerie pennsylvania
plan b audio two
Impossible collapsing dialogues evict
My shadow, iconic falsity. Optical
favors for driven
geese. To shred
armor for fun,
reason the house
into cherubic slumber falling
over rotting apple trees. Processes
in nature: to dream
every disaster into sludge,
to translate movement into
taxes. Vanishing
paragraphs traverse faster than
mire. You’re a winner every
time. Stopping to shatter
sleep into stuttering. A breath
missed. Next
door the moon melts
into ash splayed over oceans. Backwash
implements mark the time when reaching
was my only failure. I’d tolerate
other art forms if
they didn’t disable my back. Future
hospital bills fit into two line
stanzas. But the care
wasted on random smell won’t wash
in next year’s electoral
debate. Murmuring my
favorite secret programs
are several special enemies
of state. To recover one’s
proper place. Substitute
influences vie for golden
landings. My line
endings and spacings mash
potatoes. Frivolous
collaborations resonate in
coincidental indiscretions and safety
determinations. On fiery imaginary
planets. Touching my hair
where it turns to mesh. An
endless graphite spiral. My
limbs against a widening
white tree. A flag is stinky
proof of something. Anxiety
is destiny on every
rooftop guarded by the
sickness police. Surrounded
by a strange country. Or found
in. Pleats
of a bright room.
#4
why not swoon if
lavender mood golf caddy
ever-bending fellow acne
daffodil riot mirrored casing
subdural brake linen moss
untrimmed profile albino idea
leaning of strapped to
depths of my nest mute soliloquy
Jane Joritz-Nakagawa‘s ninth book of poetry, <<terrain grammar>>, is forthcoming with theenk Books as is an anthology she edited titled women : poetry : migration [an anthology].
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