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Horoscope for the Past

  Horoscope for the Past  ddd My godmother looked most at ease smoking. She didn’t have that flair for French cinema,   angled wrist, rolling paper held delicately as a question. It made it easier to breathe,   to be my godmother. She didn’t care how the sun is held so capably, the bridge   […]

Posted in Broadside Thirty, Poetry

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A Cup of Cold Water

A Cup of Cold Water In the kitchen, under the open light bulb burning out, my father is looking at the two pills in the palm of his hand: one a red oval, like candy, the other a firm blue square. He says do you know how they make me feel?   I have filled […]

Posted in Broadside Thirty, Poetry

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Escape Plan #46

& you should exit whatever dark place you’re in: leave your date wanting more, then pour out on the sidewalk. In full sun, who knows how your cheekbones may photograph. How foreign your heart may appear. You have a nice body on your hands. You have your looks good enough to eat. You can run […]

Posted in Broadside Thirty, Poetry

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Colibrí

Colibrí When I used to demand things of my first love, when I was unhappy even in his arms, he would say, Mi fascista.   Because I would say, It has to be this way.   He was full of affection.   In enneagram, I am an “individualist” (4) with a streak or wing of […]

Posted in Broadside Thirty, Poetry

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Field

Field The plaque said this was the oldest wall in the state. It was stone, set by hand, and ran the length of a field, splitting an unused road from incongruous grasses. It was no less true to say the wall bisected the field. (I could draw a diagram if provided paper.) Let me start […]

Posted in Broadside Thirty, Poetry

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Past Midnight

  And an icy tower was rising out of the sea. A wingless man was filling a bag with pickaxes and asking for directions to our house. The moon was expanding like a balloon and I was worried it might go pop. I could already see through it and there was nothing inside, no bibles […]

Posted in Broadside Thirty, Poetry

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Preemptive Elegy

PREEMPTIVE ELEGY   Metaphor frustrates me. It has no limbs or limits, and I have no idea where it came from. I’ve learned   the way for me to tell my father I love him is a game of HORSE, but the hardest way to love him   is to witness his shooting percentage decline […]

Posted in Broadside Thirty, Poetry

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Frieze

Frieze Look at the photo I’m holding an Art Forum magazine My head is cropped off It says Manhattan in the painting behind me but it isn’t Manhattan at all It’s just impressionistic gold leaves in the countryside with no city in sight Zoe Brezsny is a writer from Oakland, California who is now based […]

Posted in Broadside Thirty, Poetry

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The Late Horse Race

Translated from the original Georgian by Rebecca Gould The Late Horse Race   I dream of a horse race. I mount my nag. From every poem I know only my shame remains. Neither crusader nor knight, my battlefield has fled. Fly away with me, my dream, do not linger, wretchedly. My pool of blood stirs sadly. […]

Posted in Broadside Thirty, Poetry

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Please Don’t Feed the Spirit Animals

Please Don’t Feed the Spirit Animals I saw a pair of mechanical polar bears getting it on at the Vienna Prater. It was unexpected—his bucking her from behind while I slid by unobserved in a no-rail cart. Knees to my chin, bar low and tight across my lap, I dropped the fake camera I’d been […]

Posted in Broadside Thirty, Poetry

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Life Expectancy

Life Expectancy  It’s 2016, just after gravity’s first speech. Here I am, lying in the dirt, attempting to sense the rotation of an earth I imagine to be singular in space. I watch the breathable take shape, though my eyes are inadequate, poised between nanobes and primitive galaxies. You’ll find me at my sewing machine, […]

Posted in Broadside Thirty, Poetry

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Stuck In A Ball

  Stuck In A Ball   Think of the rivers of blood, spilled by all those generals and emperors, so that in glory and triumph, they could become the momentary masters, of a fraction, of a dot. – Carl Sagan   If you want to feel really small you think of Carl and his photograph […]

Posted in Broadside Thirty, Poetry

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Minnesotan Association of Rogue Taxidermists

  Minnesotan Association of Rogue Taxidermists   We’ve all had to confront our chimeras and give them life.   If not life, a voice.   If not voice, a body more true to their 1-3 immortal soul(s).   Only we can take the garter snake and recognize the hydra in its separate skins.   You […]

Posted in Broadside Thirty, Poetry

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Fishes’ Tears

  Fishes’ Tears Translated from the Ukrainian by Alan Zhukovski   Spring passes! Birds cry. Fishes’ eyes Are filled with tears. —Matsuo Basho   after the flood subsided we listened attentively to fishes’ tongueless weeping through the lines and planes of gelid water the fishes swam above our sunken ships and we observed the gently […]

Posted in Broadside Thirty, Poetry

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A God To Belong To

  A GOD TO BELONG TO   I want to kiss as I want to weed the garden—a cleansing.   This, too, is how God would kiss, I imagine. I am myself also   a God. Because my body, too, housing surprise at the grand narratives   we’ve created. Heaven, Hell— just other words for […]

Posted in Broadside Thirty, Poetry

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Final Girl

The last scene belonged to the final girl, who survived.

Took off down the highway, a storm in the night. She knew:
always you’re the girl or the knife.

Posted in Broadside Thirty, Poetry

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In Bowling Class, I Think of Dad Taking Things Three Months at a Time

In Olympia, my father

to whom I will not speak,

whose face heavies with the shrinking

ledger of days,

plants azaleas after surgery, the grooves

in his fingers filling with soil

and mercy.

Posted in Broadside Thirty, Poetry

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We Learn To Be Human

From our current Faith issue.  For you Portlanders (or those with private jets who fly around the country for literary events), Alicia will be reading this Thursday at our Holocene party.  WE LEARN TO BE HUMAN I attended the online seminar on shame it helped for a minute more importantly I’ve been loving the goddess for a […]

Posted in Broadside Thirty, Poetry

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Bloodline

  The loneliest feeling, she said on a day when the sky was clear, is watching an airplane fly away,   and in the middle of Valentine Texas a single machine mends railroad tracks, cracks splinter form   while buzzards string red remains over gravel lanes.   Before, she created still-life with oil paint and […]

Posted in Broadside Thirty, Poetry

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Improvisation without Accompaniment

Give me something gold to grapple with: three

apples to juggle, a scrap of paper to fold

into a dove.

Posted in Broadside Thirty, Poetry

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