Answer

Mark DuCharme

BlazeVOX [books]
Buffalo, New York
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Answer by Mark DuCharme Copyright 2011 Published by BlazeVOX [books] All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced without the authors written permission, except for brief quotations in reviews. Printed in the United States of America Book design by Geoffrey Gatza First Edition ISBN: 978-1-60964-053-8 Library of Congress Control Number: 2010943102 BlazeVOX [books] 76 Inwood Place Buffalo, NY 14209 Editor@blazevox.org

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In The Realm of The Senses

It was too hard, beauty, not to consume A rant positioning the evening hours At scenes of accidentally brutal youth Where the teacup moon is suddenly more frail That clinging, one becomes less checkered In the night, with beautiful Strangers To wield in heat while still bumped off Melting now, to underscore Botched comparisons of jag The permanent are less contrite Delaying what was slain Flittingly, as our next-of-kin Do backflips while the imploded Asserting what was vertical Are boneless, underscored

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What Appears To Be Crossed Out

For some reason, pale things run fine As still as when I first sent out What tangles, factually blank, as all Reports embedding substance unto The rhythm of what sped For how else am I to weather the offer Of botched goods without Altering the stride Of lipless golfers on dissolving Circumstance. There is a kind Of mutuality to tingling. Here Is where I want my whorls to Be Studded with all variable demand At the blank space where the frays worn off Yet does one straddle into the intact plaza Where clueless gringos hoot wickedly Looting while apparently vertical In point of felt clanging Alongside what doesnt strum

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Problem Solved

That she looks at me, & simmers That she is anyone who, practically, is spinning That she is only partially Here, in a parallel Tract home to become a rover Is true, if anything presents itself To itself, yet falls to pieces, peeling The wind off of the afternoon That she says this urgently, but wont gloat That she is a wallflower in hindsight, partially Tilted above the frantic In love with what it means to be a sailor Which she is not. She eases Her figure under the weather Until it twists, like captive saviors Or anything paler than neon That she does this until it pleases her Never to level with gardeners Or until shes treasured spatially Implied, but still not taken
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What Persists

A leaf prohibits the general economy Like instances of sinking At bottom, we are somewhere else Placenames remain thwarted The yield was also brightly thwarted Its pure bravado ravished geeks Like an out-of-body experience by proxy Invasive, not yet framed I had continued to question the rules of this slippage Fragrant with coercive Economies bloodying schools of thought Implied, but not yet rounded up to silence Where thrusts grew more rank with clanging Mock-ups which would rock us Shattered like the bottom line Of the poem, which is often not the same as its summary Yet was I still called away from the gala Doldrums where I kind of stank At the notion of whats now in motion Exiting histories we have yet to grow more pale
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Piercing Stain

Your frankness embitters all patrolmen To succeed, become less frigid Please check all baggage before deportation & This backlog now is chiseled I thought you should know About it blent, wrapping calligraphies Like the toothy compliment which becomes toast Savaged by the upscale As if this paragon of heavy metal Came to bid good morrow To our slinking extroverts & we all cashed out Our safety nets for evanescent jujubes To cause a scission in our formalwear (escapism) Through weird tints, colors vibrating The inclement harbingers grew nude, or pure Averted in the traffic Of shadows what repeatedly now stands still Sensory but incomplete In this land we least suspect, but dwell Contenting shrieks as roundabout as air
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Savior

This repressive lack in any common Erotic surefire attack Against whom to glimmer like the slimmer Who inherit space at will, but are not sure The moon is now off-center Like a camera, a paranormal impact Wincing, under the mouths of saviors Against whose image clouds are suddenly effaced

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Make Me A Believer

Certain tests become the speechless Though your inner dork might disapprove Effacing shape until its too late But dont quote me, I might ramble The whiny guy was instrumental It was a sing-along, but less impressive Boring poetry equals boring women You cant have it both ways I found them soon outslung, though sulking At desperations prior to disrepair Like this slinking, which could alter Depending on what results youre after What hinges, socially, on the make-believe Is also part of why Im still not Here, in order to defund the haggard While operators still stand by 8:16 AM: got my groove back I was an Aussie wussie With large amounts of velour on backorder In the faith that comes of too much spinning
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Fossilized Speechifier

That this clinging now is inadmissible Shadows charged with birds Indented by specialists who really sank In the ground, while also messing up its curve Shattered by a leaf, or other Harbinger, divisible at omnipresent Angles not to withdraw all useless Thinking, toward an edge of The body Alive, while flittingly on overdrive To move in, around, or Shunted by At a coterie of lingerie denatured By all speculative moonwalkers wincing Under silhouettes where first addressed By what no longer could be traced, but guessed

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Disrobing is Verified

A particle memory fills up the guises With this challenge of infatuated renting Who are also hot, but stir up thought Like a wound entered by another body Ceded by an unmarked body Whose very pulse delivers whiteness Waived like hankies on a snow day Though the paranoiac citizen in it malingers At crisp angles of unrest Until a kind of botched voyeurism is checked Lean like patent tamperers Whose very looks become more frayed Liking pangs of solid motion While this sharp voice outside it rings Immediately upon the untested Without meaning to envelop the physical The remnants were on autoglaze We all escaped, but still conspire To sing, holding the note offkey Like a blue medallion
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Totem

I met a man who knew A makeshift way of wanting to be known He told me I was pregnant Which is funny, because thats how I thought about miniature golf He gave me pornographic drawings Filterless Greek cigarettes He kissed his shiny, black eyes But I didnt see myself that way I turned into some other kind of creature Rocking inside, honey-drenched Melody darkened my brain A makeshift way of wanting to be known Sex was a series of waves A bracelet heavy with tourmaline I like to think of myself as a lion Or else, some kind of bird that cries

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Possibilities Enthrall Our Foreheads

Reckless engenderment presupposes double dipping Like on a trace I wrote a bad poem for the fucked-up crush Whose city you replace Little pieces of rooster-thought Whose play is possibly fucked-up thought Double dipping instruments Of the bad poem, now lost The good poem is a rumor We have been hearing about like stolen Lines wherein that last stanza The bellwether is late rushing I might install other examples Here is one: the Bellclerks Ears keep flipping Like the King on downers That last stanza was a rumor But its okay, if you are young & frothy Here I am, almost pictured With you, send five dollars
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Maybe ten, in amounts less checkered With ordinary bellcurves, sombreros Were I a gaucho spokesmodel Under the soft benches manically gifted In other news, the huntsmen Often woolly, can be seen here slipping Unto buckets effervescent with Efferdent Which reverberant Klingons now revoke There is only one person Ive ever liked named Andrew Sorry, its not you

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