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January 21, 2016 Poetry

Three Poems

Eszter Takacs

Three Poems photo

The Air On The Moon Is Not Yours

I closed up the brain  some flutter                     music waddled out
The spark of the liner notes    the must         the elegance of tripe in basket
the elegance of debt
If you are dreaming go west                   with an umbrella go west
I thought of you in the grander sense  like a dispatched Antarctic          like a blue sunrise
or a soft Deniro shaking loose
I talk up the spinal chord              so much lustward      of my kin
It isn’t wet it isn’t escapist
The best dog I ever walked             was your name             in a white mouth
We dreamt under moonlight              and I threw away your sun
I built a Ferrari inside my white mouth
The shape of it was blue            and up came the sun
I said hey, Ferrari and with my white mouth              huffed it good, huffed it pretty
The throat of your pale moon heartscape contained me
I said, hey pale moon heartscape, contain me             and it did, 
like a dog, it contained me,                      inside the full blue nothing 
Dogs are shapes of the air I don’t                see
Walked your dog walking your dog,                                      it was demeaning
I went outside next door upstairs away                     dreamt
Your lake was clear blue,                        like a demanding lake,                  clear blue
I balcon up your seam, some subaltern vault                                  heresy of crapping
Into radix, feign reduction into                         strapped on blooms
like strap-on blooms
What redux what dream what breath what                           desire
Your drifting concussion isn’t reliable, it is distinct
Wet meaning haunts your face light                                  dream big like a diamond
Splined and wrenched,                  the coup sought containment
Inside it, no chicken, no prize, no soft bread
Seen you once
So much debt in my face and I couldn’t reduce it
I puked I puked I walked outside                       I puked
I throated your pale purple moonlight                          in the draft
I make feelings about your lifting face and champion the bolt that locks it
Fuck the wind, it just makes you              creepy
Like dog-shaped air, I want to climb                      the war instead
I climb your balcony of soft enunciations,             bruised skies
I said hey, you said whatever
I said hey, this part of us glows                   unto the moon



The Space Of The Body Is Not Your Freedom


Breathe room into your fresh marriage of stars

Into the tiny blue asphyxiation

We call careerist driving or downward driving dog

Or all my feelings are named Elizabeth

But none of them are

And none of them know how to blink

And none of the know how to gas light the great arc

And none of them know how to break a glass mold

Eat its glum hackneyed innards with varietal sauce on tap

Break it into concepts worth taking

Into glass poems for the living

Your housemate is your philistine compatriot

His red yellow crux of Whitman’s bright luck

Is your longest dream about freedom

To be human is to lux into the weakness heart

Like bruising tangerines

Like holding snow at the dinner table

And expecting to be surprised

To be human is to love eating

To love the color green and to blame it

To not erase the chicken drawn on every map

The gold line it shivers, the small speak it has spun


The Dream In The Book I Didn't Write Isn't Real


I thank the black shapes            

that sing me red.  


I begin climbing into the

tree song that I have caused you.

It is the song that I have caused you

to bleed the goodbye I want to make you into.


Consider the highway!           

Its dumb luck and strong breath   


consoling our sleeping flowers and how

how breathless you are in the moonlight.    


You are a sky rocketing up!        

If saying forever is nothing like


saying Alaska Alaska,       

if saying Alaska


means going broke in June,    

this wagon of bees believes you


and you believe quietly that

I am a pleased corporation.


Here is how you should clean

a picnic basket or your neighbor.


Say I will clean you and then do it

with your optic nerve and cryptic handshake.


And you my neighbor

are just another ruse     


wearing a house dress that greets me.

I think you should go swimming


in the quiet of your harbor,

in the quiet of my Etch-a-Sketched grove.


image: Carabella Sands