Poems by Jack Galbraith @galbraithjack - Tumblr Blog

Architectural Prints

Who saw the leaves of Corinth’s make?

The tremorous lines of underground rooms below where people ambled and gathered and shit and died.

Make note! That space reserved for space reserved for maps were noted, noticed, and unfolded by one in passing, black boundaries lightly traced.

Is that something when I go forget it next week? Tomorrow?

Expending the little energy in the blueprint’s final rite to be the ultimate ceremony by chucking into a weighted, filling bin.

Two tons; I likely threw more.

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Cocoon

Tell me, you were born on a tremor-

it’s been hell ever since.

When rotting cherry acid blooms again in keeping with the new dying fall.

Remarkable! The guttural change from shaky bowed steps to flighty readiness.

You, able as you may, and a needling courage taking over every damn flinch.

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To Remember

Our fullest rewards

may yield yet tallest grain,

their arc on exertion,

old shoulders, and pain.

As the food and the fuel

may be lacking throughout,

still the corner, self-carved,

is a piece, not without.

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The off-hour trains

blink empty with the blues.

Neighboring cars writhe

in and out of line

like fat snakes

undulating under

a shimmer of

gold heat.

We stop lean

into the wind.

Sifted flour seagulls

dot junked auto-yards.

Odd numbered cars

sit quietly open between

abrupt doors

and overflow with crocuses.

Say, the aisle is walled

on either side

with bricks of cobalt,

ochre stems.

Lean wind

we stop into.

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Supper

Brown cowbirds-

a whole mess-

dipped beaks

like sharp ladles

into the grasses

coming up full

of bits and treasured

clear dew

again and again

until the bowl

beside the road

dwindled in green,

lain dry.

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Death Was Nice

for the time being

and the undoing

is wonderful.

The undoing like a spool

mixed and drunk on itself

onto the floor.

I want to tell Death

the effort to turn him

from stomach to back

was difficult

But truthfully,

it is like upending a

cork

with a flick.

Haven’t we

all been giving breath

to the spring submerged?

And there you go

doing March’s work a

handful

at a time.

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Akimbo!

I love becoming it

on the floor with legs

and arms angular and

inhuman as Bass'

asymmetry—

movement

is a corner away

and poised like the ready animal

against screaming infinity.

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Outside Tornado Season

On Tuesdays, the first of the month, sirens bend and relax over fat, elastic seconds. The sound is both bright and muddy (In the space I remember I am worse than everyone). The only will the tornadoes gave sign they possessed was dragging one heavy stump over town, teetering between a guide they do not own. Like they swallowed the cork and are bobbing in and out of land. Of course, it's already past the time and I still haven't known you but feel the spinning lead in my pockets slow and cool.

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All the Same

Was the first card he sent after.

The old return address was so frank;

it didn't acknowledge her death.

Inside her signature was absent

but a reflected splotch of the words

were signs my uncle closed it quickly

after inking a small clinical sentence.

The severity was needed to stamp out

indication that anyone else would have added their regards.

If he had left it open to dry she may have slipped in,

took her time to neatly place

each letter following &

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Sister Cruelty

The crow’s walk.

Summer raked warm

rain across the open barn. Pause

nitrogen swimming

Dark fur went under the

veil of water, two boys

dropped another. Sister

Cruelty fell asleep in

the eaves where the bats

roosted on lime. Quiet save rain

And soundless lightning broke

easily and often overhead

like the silent friction

of sister’s cartilage forming

joining. I know now the

bloodless lust then breathing

but thin and gauzy as the lace

she wore to breed with

incorrect will already

in place before found.

The miracle

of drowned kittens

interposing is the nature of this

thing without feed or fuel. Still

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1 Sec/Day/Year

1 second of footage every day for all of 2013.

Music courtesy Penguin Cafe Orchestra (Perpetuum Mobile).

#1 second #short film #video diary

Daily

The sounds from the shower run through the pipes and I listen to you hum. I run the water and throw soap over old dishes. Your voice cuts through the wall and I remember, then turn down the heat and let the sink drain cold as I stand idle, waiting for a metallic hit and hiss.

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Tiny Breathing Sparrows

Is it funny

or fool to think

of cancer-changing atoms

that live full well a life

as tiny breathing sparrows?

The roseatia,

of redness,

he felt near pell-mell waters

has gone straight through his head,

turned colloidal, broken arrows.

Were the sickness,

the burn by bleach,

hell's motion stripping vein

from death's design, the sound resign

toward victr'y further narrows.

Be these calm

and raging fills

bloom discretely separate notions,

one half deplete, twin resilient still,

stitches bend, groan, growth sallow.

At final fall

the wavering thought,

dark matter mustn't matter,

for breath is dust despite

the sleight of cunning little sparrows.

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The Sea

The wake tumble-up through sleeper's thin lips,

spreading seafloor manacles crossed over

unseen chemicals run dark by sun's leeching,

an ever-alterable tempest dream conceived.

Who fights foam, grained gravelbar biting,

repetitious yawn & close.

Look,

there the friction-speak of dawn grinds eventual,

dozing earth lifts one mortar-white tendon

over carbon glaze, angering the calm pulse

of ocean to a meaty, spinning boil,

of man's deep illness eternal brought

shallow & quick.

The rage lasts the fall of night,

a precious sour waste left felt

only by crags & rock, the veil below,

in deeper conscious, unmoving.

#2013 poetry #poem #poems #new poem #new poetry #unpublished

Mockingbird

By firelight

skin mimics honey

in the peripheral edges

and beckons a warmth

of its own, deep & gold.

Bare shoulders

in the summer are

small blessings as well,

yoked to crystallizing

memory on the tongue.

So sure and clear the taste

new youth could only have

repeated the myth

before it rises like salt

in the lungs, keeping

the mouth from opening.

Like a desperate kiss

turning back to vapor,

slender attractions

we have become and

desire, two dimpled

stars breaking.

There goes the mockingbird

again, responding with

a shrill and tapered whistle,

free to call and hear its own clear

voice in every canopy.

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A weed

wraps

around herself

before she

knows

the choke

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Her Evening Liquor

O-

Leave a space where memory

of silver liquid may fill it-

the course of our horizon's flinty

shinbone tended crystal and thin.

These oblique American

hours shudder into being-

throw off each previous on a

shapeless hinge

and return gilded, braced

like twine to warped oak.

Where flesh meet bone-

recast steely lightning

and of early impetus,

heat, dully lit-

a digging, waxy trail.

Her evening liquor

stands with tremors-

frothy livid flames.

#2013 poetry #poetry #poem #poems #new poetry

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Poems by Jack Galbraith