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Amy Trussell
Pain Au Chocolate
A fish witch lets out a shudder in the Gulf Stream.
I'm restless this eve like an
overdrawn horse
trying to struggle right up
off the page
Rattle under these eyelids:
It's the return of the kit
drummer
urging me to keep eyes
clothed
because rising seas will soon
be measured
in yards, not inches, now
that Southern
ice shelves are cracking like
the moon's grill
and New Orleans is a hair's
breadth away
from slipping under water.
The shifting properties of
man's ways
have no solid ground-
Not even scientists with
their projections
into the future, their hands
coated in oil
they've gathered from the
deep fry
as they convert my ride into
some
more edible form of
combustion,
like burning fat of sperm
whale in a lamp.
In the dream I unravel down
the stairs in the morning
dragging a night gown from
the last century.
You are talking to the
continuity editor and I ask
When did you show up? In
the middle of the night?
You nod Yes as I kiss
your forehead.
Then we throw soap out the
window
into a yard where smart cagey
women
are preparing to go on a
moonlight run
I awaken and slowly begin to
dissect
this dream like it's pain au
chocolate
I'm preparing to delve into
at my old haunt with the
velvet curtains
and crooked balconies
over on Burgundy
Berry Spirits
My feet are in the direction
of the great book
While all the gold clocks
circle wells
I'm home where two birthdays
matter tonight.
My brothers arrived a month
before, boxing my ears with cigars.
They opened the refrigerator
in a different direction.
Watch me eat whiskey lines.
Am I too much for you?
Berry is in good spirits wandering off in the goldenrod.
He usually calls Bridget or
Dawn in to work .
And moves toward the
refrigerator with Bach on.
Special latter-day Monday
priests working it
Me? Off by the cistern.
Behind maiden prayer wells
willing, having different
alchemy tutors.
Saturday my cigars won,
taking calls while eating.
And lining things with
transmutation.
The wonderful dawn caul keeps
wandering.
Carrib love distracts, sets
the spirits willing
Dr. Furnace already sent dawn
cigar box smoke
They usually go to Mother,
Cigaring along, planning
rampage
She took calls and bets
during my birth.
Artemis recommends draining a
whiskey.
Try Bridget, girlfriend, good
going love-
She keeps me from wandering
off.
She usually takes me
somewhere.
Maybe a wild rampage with the
priests of Artemis.
Transmutation while calling
in Dawn.
Berries box step with both
feet on the ground.
There at the prayer circle,
blowing cigar smoke
And spraying berry spirits
along the spokes
Sure night points off to
other spokes
With the usual looks stored.
Something wild bit your
consciousness
I'm sure everything will go
into the well.
Bury me in good spirits, Sis
In a box cigar with a
whiskey.
Something along those lines.
Berrys are twice born, at
least.
I'll be smashing at the prayer circle
With my feet in different
directions.
This is some kind of great
alchemy furnace machine.
Under a waning golden
transmutation
Inspired by a letter from Jake Berry
galactagogue sky
stoven light. stone pond
creases webbed shaft.
dark expanding
fence, still forest egg. the world caramels.
juice, feathers windy
forecourt
of the gone galactic water
spider. well ligaments.
lacrimae star holding between
wet poppies
shucked into
the bubble.
cup dyes, glistening temples
beneath neck rose standing
black
built drive float with cooked
horseshoe
the bottled still moon, blown
neck
black shucked lift of
swan violets crowning the
fire drive
float brimming moon.
inner double light singeing
half plumage
between the sextant's blades
down gliding swan, black
wind, lifted powder feathers
shucked in standing sextant
temple juice
poppies black into plunged
bird caramel
crept rose blown half a world
back
between neck narrows and
singeing vervain
the egg holding crouched moon
the light compressed, forest
star double dying
still lunae lacrimae
fence beneath bottle there
expand ligaments, temple the
dark in glistening horseshoe
inner shaft, rare cooked moon
and webbed spider jars dye
brimming
shells and pond driven blades
rush galactic stones inside
built fire
soft as light gone into the
dipping crow
and mud oven the violet mash
bubbling galactagogue sky
dunce angel
for Stacey Duff
remember when mother weighed
love
against the periodic
elements?
she wore gardening gloves.
christ, you've got a playful
heart
booked with proverbs and
adverbs.
it's because i cup my
ear-heart receiver.
you have a generous sweet
tooth, like a lazer.
let us continue: first you
cut up like a grand experiment-
that would make for a happy
reunion.
we discuss the spirits of
various produce markets
in the hainan islands and new
orleans
throwing vegetables on the
ground for the ancestors.
this is provocative voodoo,
and I think your friend
jake berry is suckling that
notion.
this is "a confederacy
of dunces".
someone placed a letter just
there, secretly, on the receiver.
you act like a degas of these
small island readings
in big sure tooled boots,
running down the river.
at the first flurries you go
to the city of decadence
to find the ways of breakfast
pot and honeyed tongues
viewing lines from poems as
the provocative would
but you are bookish and
skewed, though gentle.
a lying pen-pusher, full of
shells
i've reformed myself as
experimental from a good
old writer to a word-maker
speaking in tongues
hank's at the station with
questions
unloading the family angel
tree piece by piece
while i'm doing the back yard
hundred tanked up
washing the car wearing a
gris-gris
skewering two kennedy novels.
sweet.
i have little to do with
heaven or earnest.
i'm hot for cinnamon, but
trying to moderate
she guards me like a
confederate angel hellion
and can make a two-inch snow
melt.
writing with my appetizers i
move mountains
sincerely, skye, from a
voodoo valley of heaven.
hell, i go cloudless in the
back yard
washing a skillet the size of
texas
sometimes i'm a cave count on
a mission
with bee-keepers who spill
their guts
to all their honeyed friends,
like cinnamon.
jake is brambu red,
fracturing delicious poetry
while playing the washboard
he teaches us to survey the
oak family's past
and eats a fevered sun for
breakfast.
says for a beginning, stand
on the desk, feet planted,
and candlelight yourself to
new orleans.
Interstellar Delta
Intersection
Brazil Indians shed wings
into amulet charms
Concerto strings flutter,
accent air, mystified
Dry crying on a cloudy out
swing
Feeling battled, reminded of
Icarus.
Brueghel was an earth liver
Butterflies glue to
atmosphere space
and spine the brain's
internal river,
Ordinary muscle rivers.
Mardi Gras of love is the
only calling
with Brandenberg, his music
winging over clay
Mystified to transformation
in move-move universe
With flight, be body over the
extinct
Reincarnation of Icarus and
oceans
Humans use the interstellar
body to
Voyage the bone liberation
Your flavor my eyes, our
inner world
Bach hears the wings, sky,
vaporous
Seems semblant, says outside,
inside, the time's now
There the painting, here the
oceans
Unidentified tethered flying,
Travel drum, become human and
bawdy
For a fall metamorphosis of
updraft leaves
Eye this, our world, to
pieces
Dance formations move to Xue
Di
Quietness starts up an
intoxicated mind
Vapored thinking: Icarus'
required crash
This cannot dream beyond
thirteen voyages, can it?
Bondage, slave motions,
outter dancers, liberation.
Otherwise move from the
delta.
Move Chinese toward inward
blood
Beauty's course flight
Apollos these motions
With a stringed accent,
untethered.
Can-can dancers in a think-so
world
With coarse Brazilian
accents.
Beauty's battle is in your
favor.
Ordinary rivers are
interstellar oceans
In an open groove brain
Chinese are mystified at the
Mardi Gras formations:
Rivers of wings not required
to leave the earth
& the metamorphosis of
painted bodies to oceans
Xue Di cried a river.
Your quiet inwardness loves
the universe to pieces.
Its your only amulet
For making it in interstellar
space.
Amulet me, I have only
ordinary charms
Move me out of the box step
formation
My eyes are glued to your
painting of the poem
The Chinese move intoxicated
down the delta
Towards liberation and the
ocean with oxen
Where Apollo tends Icarus
thirteen times
In water, clay, bone, and
blood.
Here we will not crash
Into reincarnating
butterflies
At some interstellar delta
intersection
As we feel each planetary
body
Travel up the spine.
Amy Trussell
With assistance from an anonymous friend
whose connection to Xue Di makes him
subversive in the eyes of the Chinese government
Copyright © Amy Trussell
