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Adam Fieled is a poet based in Philadelphia. His books include Posit (Dusie Press, 2007), Beams (Blazevox, 2007), When You Bit... (Otoliths, 2008), Apparition Poems (Blazevox, 2010), Mother Earth (Argotist E-Books, 2011), and Cheltenham (Blazevox, 2012). His latest chapbook is Cheltenham Elegies/Keats Odal Cycle (Gyan Books, 2015). He has work in Otoliths, Tears in the Fence, Jacket Magazine, fourW, Poetry Salzburg Review, Great Works, Nth Position, Helios Mss, Penned in the Margins, PennSound, and in the & Now Awards 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.


From Apparition Poems:


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—



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—


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.



The brave-hearted poetics of sex—
possessed, possessive of impulses
to fling one’s self into another,
then fling one’s self into a world
in which things turn into, become,
other things— the first thing I
think of is State College, the dim
recollection of screwing Jennifer
on the Old Main lawn, dusk of
a long day in May— where I was
was where I wasn’t, as Jennifer
also was, wasn’t, chiaroscuro comes
into us in the idea of durations— I
had no idea, in sex & metaphor, who could die. 


I could’ve used you in New
Hampshire that summer, rope-
swinging into Contoocook River,
dope-huffing out in the fields
with Jon Anderson, his gang,
your future rival (unbeknownst
to all) tapping her feet in anticipation
of new reasons to mope, make
metaphor. I could’ve understood
why it might be that your rival
could never be your friend—
too tense about counting her fingers,
toes, too loose on the juice, or
(cruelly, for all) maybe just right, simpatico? 


Sun glistens on the Schuylkill’s surface—
over-presences fill the space between
the river and my third story window.
The grass, the shrubs are sanctified,
even the concrete walkways look
as though touched by the reality of
deep water, its boundlessness, heft.
Over-presences, untouched by the
underbelly of human reality, subsist,
exist simultaneously, there, not there,
self, no-self, and if I get there myself,
occasionally, it is because I see your
reflection there, your individual life.
Time takes the halves, makes them whole. 






copyright © Adam Fieled