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JOrdan Stempleman
My poetry has previously appeared in magazines such as
Blue Fifth Review, Columbia Poetry Review, Milk Magazine, MiPoesias, Moria, New American Writing, Otoliths, Private, Shampoo, Softblow, and
Word For/Word. My first book, Their Fields is available through Moria e-books.
Swaps
Every Second almost
the heady strain to gamble at
it alone here
comes the racket through
the blocks the endothermal slip of
arriving late or the look in eyes that coo I’m
with you now uneternal
as ever I know there
are coupons upon coupons that we’ll throw away oftentimes
call the listed numbers
and hangup before we all reach a deal the
fitness complains of the bargaining skits that
nothing would go different nothing
only nonsense to flake away from
the whole thing such
a blush for the filed edge from contact I
have the intuition to
call for a fall position some yellow
just before so it can be there to
spot or seed any one of my open places
to stand on after I no longer stand for anymore
The
Rare Direction of Turns the
real likeness never sang to the agent before go
there for once as I first noticed you as
the remarkable gauze or tarred black pattern so
stuck to this shoe she
knows better she
understands the notion to move off a word for good to
leave behind the
sun goes down the
sky comes up the
cheek takes to the sweat of even the unknown environments accepts
its stance of feeling for the outside never
there for
those other parts that tend and fill the unnatural space left when
the arm breaks and suffering moves to
fill these gaps there
we say the
sense is true to renew our features untouched
by reference if nothing else
The
Stubbing in a Dress At
about three, there becomes for
certain, discontinuity. From the car stolen,
to the one very white car
of the interim, her wallet was often left
in both. The plain sight of never being stolen, the touch of parking under a streetlight, all unfortunate possibilities taken home with her, but nothing coming of it, her day to start again with the same relationships she held before. This was very difficult to remember, surely uncertain if dead leaves, if believable there were dead leaves around, broke before they touched feet or cruel wall of curb. To imagine, there’s a place that turns away oxygen. There are things so certain of their function, they write over this stuff, keep going on, touching the last leads some creature held and abandoned, some creature that became tired or interested again.
We’re
at Plaster we
already know the slip up the wonder that remains unable or afraid
the
upheld side of a well-thrown pie as it gives the rest to the grass the
cruel elapse of all good things remains civil towards our ears and funny to
our nose and over time the dripping company is really something while
it sits there and speaks across the table with nothing sitting in for eyes
After Some Trees There
not
after last night, sometimes even
if to complete, it’s not there
when asked to appear, lately passing or passing the wild measure of
the vanished image made, not made
just for minds, a prevention to
turn away, settle in for measure, think of everything that wanted above all
else, the senseless speak of returns, there
for company, retold again as
here it fits, not precisely above or below where all else goes, as it stands to
hurt if shifted, the blank freed again when
mentioned, the right to return much
earlier to what hides and stands in the interest of support, grown and good except
dry, the claim, one is alone, their return and
afterwards, the true mark to guarantee we’re
together, restless in the arch of good sense, the casual grip lost, the later it seems
copyright © Jordan Stempleman |