New Poems in April

An ongoing project at Bat, Bean, Beam

The painted library [post]

A cheap, ugly edition
of every book in existence,
I can’t help myself.

Flattened in the transition
and inhabited in specific ways,
I argue. I argue.

I argue, euphemistically,
somebody has
selected the books.

For better or for worse,
by physically being there
I notice what’s missing.

A library. A painted library.
The same cheap edition.
Fold them up, bring them

to the gatherings or marches.
Glimpse a possible future
to the book of books.

The space you take up [post]


There is a slack-skinned ghost
visible to none but a few,
that could readily tell the story
of the space you took up.

Harrowed and hurried
by two tenants previous,
it is bound by convention
as I draw in my elbows.


I miss my dead colleague
and the space we took up
giggling, at take-off,
“it’s a good thing that we sit together.”

Out here,
there is big art and big sky.
She showed me both
the day she gave me the tour.


I am the hidden morbid.
I am the fat-woman by stealth.
You don’t know that I am
unless you see my numbers.

I sit in the space I take up,
not particularly bothering you
pushing up the stats,
counting, biding my time.

To save everything, click here [post]

To save everything, click here.
In which I fix it for you; in which
the disemvowelling and elisions and
fantômes under the stair ball up and

batten down again until the bairns
collapse the ceilings and the
sirens under tangled chords come clear:
To save everything, click here.

To save everything, click here.
Vox populi vox dei; we habitants on-
line made worse as editors or janitors,
fog-minded finger-pointers who meant

well, lest we forget, lest we
remember where we put the loving
cup, the dregs of brave new world
and brave new year. To save everything,

click here.

The reader [post]

The sharp edge of the serif
lifts, a little,
the last layer of skin
whose cells, within,

part of an infinite


cohere, where?
Your last good bet.

The stickiest fingers
abuse the new, flat page
smear, adhere,
but do not abrade:

to a monochrome thought
in a monochrome


The death party [post]


Inside the body is an other-body,
a face that speaks,
no mouth.

Inside the pulp is no cheap fiction,
a burial of
burning bones.

Inside the viscera, an un holy-vacuum,
your bad death,
worse destination.

You have forgotten and I don’t remember,
dropped arches,
smashed carpus.

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