John Selvidge



footnote to Brancusi

and to who wouldn’t commandeer a
forced integration
or realization by way of tome or chime
announcement of $5 margarita
bleeding would of remote control
or haggard drilling
or request for a second introduction
so that a
name takes weight in the
second beaming, confirm of a smile

consider being let go
the slightest mar, a freight elevator shaft
& then left uncovered what to
what marble does on its own time
as blasphemy undertaken as a hobby
“because the grass grows,” etc.,
& mind is the meal that
begins delectably with clean plate

look out
they’re everywhere, navels
exposed and smiles, glances in rotation
clean up after this weekend’s festival
& find them in doggerel twilight to
walk down a block, scissors
turning to look behind, the
Venus of Willendorf in pairs, descent
stretched rayon
neckline thru torso at thick
curb of thinking as
forgetfulness aims its own ends

something about
the integrity of a line &
a wet claim of spring that damns the
kind of friend, after a year, would rather
be cool than kind, above thought
thematized as weakness of plastic public toilets
you are limned of
as to bracken in the folds
of sweetness, 27
divers down along a string, what
evidence of insult
sewn up between genitals or
torpedoed in a soft word, shucked
of enthusiastic compact—what will
the weather be on Wedneday?, maybe, or
let me buy you a drink
worrying if the engine’s running, how
badly the language’s stalled

one still pt., hovers,
denudes at apex like
living at the beach (who said
it?) and I like perpetuating that
wind through our
mental shoelaces, tearing
paper in the slow mode of
stained glass—we’ll
catch up to you, no problem or

else, three weeks later,
passing through again,
opening the door & leaning
to the sill, hoping for
another stranger in the laugh,
a remedy in walking, working
slow to attend a
but still only
finding you there
guilt aslant & pointed




the upside

found a bark, brace of the obscene
minuets for feathers in a dark drill.

Champions of mushrooms, these
blanched wet. Live rounds twirling

in our hair, I mean hairstyles. A new
crooked gait for the try-hard hip

and their strange fanzines to be
brought to earth, requisitioned from

the flats, the floodplain. 



casual Friday

Just so as would a fiend refine
it is open.

As never the mine-
field of opportunities
close against the foot in
outline of the subtle body
sweat, 7UP, a licking
as many lights, so shadows
busy, -foliate, calm.


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