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ADAM FIELED
Adam Fieled is a poet, critic,
and musician currently based in Philadelphia. He has released three print books:
Opera Bufa (Otoliths, 2007), When You Bit... (Otoliths, 2008), and
Chimes (Blazevox, 2009), as well as numerous e-books, chaps, and e-chaps.
His work has appeared in journals like Tears in the Fence, Great Works,
Upstairs at Duroc, Cake Train, and in the &Now Anthology
from Lake Forest College Press. A magna cum laude graduate of the University of
Pennsylvania, he also holds an MFA from New England College and an MA from
Temple University, where he is finishing his PhD.
From Apparition Poems:
#1327
She said, you want Sister
Lovers, you son of a bitch,
pouted on a beige couch in
Plastic City, I said, I want
Sister Lovers, but I’m not
a son of a bitch, and I can
prove it (I drooled slightly),
took it out and we made
such spectacular love that
the couch turned blue from
our intensity, but I had to
wear a mask because I’d
been warned that this girl
was, herself, a son of a bitch—
#1328
The girl on the trolley
had pitch black hair,
eyes to match, I got
her vibes instantly—
so, what do we
want to do? Do
we want to do
this? Is it OK?
took her back here
took her clothes off
took her not gently
I’ll never take the 34 again—
#1326
Before the sun rises,
streets in Philly have
this sheen, different
than at midnight, as
the nascent day holds
back its presence, but
makes itself felt in air
like breathable crystal—
no one can tell me
I’m not living my
life to the full.
#1323
As dawn breaks out in
a world of darkness, I
take risks to get you, I
put you on to games of
this kind, all this means
is that this is strong tea,
be careful, it could go to
your head, it congeals in
circles, word after word,
place it where it belongs.
CAFÉ
napkin-neat café decomposition
poster-plastered walls represent fresh being
repetitious modes of sensual self-sacrifice
not recoverable by any stub-cottony means
lightning track-lighting long-swallow lit-smoke
my grey-guts spattered on a table
unstructured strength it could be, cherry-red cowardice
parallel shadows unplaced by any given
finally flight is taken from time’s impossibility
for solid substance, death’s lettuce-deluge
self-naming can’t be where this winds up
SONG FOR MARIA
My scarlet letter let you in
We rallied on our separate beds
The way to blue was flushed w/ ice
Your tongue possesses everything—
(lighten my,
watch my,
blow my)
In any case the case is closed
We walk the streets, a trackless train
My verdant prayer is yr own skin
I can’t believe I’m free again—
Relax—
Ice yr. drink—
Think—
Pursue a purpose lost in flame
Become the scum you dote on, crab
The sky, the ground, the square you are
The realm of flesh is one long purge—
Mercy mercy
mercy
Mercy
mercy
copyright
© Adam Fieled
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