Your Spenserian Heart
Allusions to bridges. Moonbled in the moonlight. Heliotrope the stone, heliotrope the flower. “Accursed be a cowardly and covetous heart.” But shoes, nickels, fodder, a knack for ugly. Cakes and cages. However munched I used to be, left with ears and coils, abandoned pencils, leaflets, requests for food. Her name a tear. Your Spenserian heart. The first sin or the fairest. That’s the ark.
Twelve Aural Illusions
How much later we arrive, eating. Chocolate is no longer the password. As if with a shovel. Music is no longer the password. Twelve aural illusions. Resembling mud. Mural immured miraged, is listening. Apricot is no longer the password. Engaged with the blurry, glasses off with it. After all, Jesus’s pizza, and after all, location sublime. Our point of reference is here. Prehistoric giants, a megalithic tomb. The Incas, or an incubus. What we used to be. That we are in location.
On our isolated hill. Back in the bedroom looking at the fire. St. Michael slaying the dragon. What radio station call letters spell out. In the mausoleum wall, sure, but tell me what of lime? Finnegan himself. A short musical flourish with trumpets. Light converted into sound. Being in order to manifest. List, list, O list! The acoucryptophone, which picked up vibrations from a piano being played in another room, appearing to play itself. The lier is the one who lies down. The Four Old Men begin what they will begin. Pretumbling lichen forever olives.
Because she is only wearing one shoe. The opposite of conchord. As though this history has been inherited. Underneath where Herodotus lay. A composite character representing the four evangelists. Inside the violin, inside the variorum. Unreadability’s fragments. Such initialisms. The cloud we tell when to tell. The future that is. The four predictions predicted by the four historians. One is the unitary and I can’t speak anything more.
The Want Formula
Demonic surveillance. Take the spell off me, I want to be as I was. Childhood everywhere. To steal away, to steal away. In the headlights. Our crazy is performance. Toffee, a measure of corn, salutations. I’ll take what’s spoiled, just cut off the edges. An imitation of something that used to be and is now just a nostalgia. A negotiated drunk. The keeper of keys in the moss.
Carrie Hunter received her MFA/MA in the Poetics program at New College of California, and edits the small chapbook press, ypolita press. She has published ten chapbooks, the most recent of which are Scienza Nuova (LRL Textile Series), Echographies of April (gavia immer) and Inversion Twilight (Birds of Lace). Her first full-length collection, The Incompossible,