by Joel Sloman

1.

Imported from the UK
the first daffodils
remove hands from their eyes
left then right
Red tulips
snake
out of leaf caves
Edges of ornate petals
are not handled as gingerly
as the Greek krater
recently returned to Italy
black figures prancing on its surface
like fancifully colored carousel animals

Lists, pro and con
thoughts arriving at the window sill
but not leaping
Can I handle this disaster ?
this relationship ?

2.

Very big
and very pale
a sun sinks behind trees
that make obeisance
to the curving river

I would like this fairy tale
to give you pleasure

Chilly, windy
the long, soft, lonely cloud
rushes toward a precipice

You tap on the floor
I tap back on the ceiling
in a non-code
I hear breathing in the dark
a window, a kitchen, a street
coffee

3.

He ran in circles around the sofa
until exhausted
Meanwhile the strange visitor
fixed his torn lapel

Droopy are the tulips
perky are the daffodils
the vase is a crown roast
or a bird with paper boots

The perfect setting for me
is when I can observe others disagreeing
and be detached
and compassionate

                    He had this dream
and wasted the day

After AWP
poets in bars watched the Super Bowl

4.

He didn’t know another way
failing into
the corner
where writing
embraced him and imprisoned him
I have the right
to pull you to me
ignoring your moping disinclination
to pull you onto my lap
and speak to you
as intimately as I like

No, that’s not right
or “write”
a universe of athletic “girls”
silence that’s a figure of speech
upon which sounds —
a car,
steps on the stairs —
are collaged
a composition
on a warped grid

Stems are
                              bundled tubes
a small white dog on a leash
specialty shops
the thick pink strokes
crowd to the left
of a yellow translucent fish . . .

5.

It’s “insolent kindness”
her face was ashen

I wore “practical” clothes
selected by my parents
made by a family friend

I stood in the doorway
grabbed the arm
of a passing girl
pulled her toward me
another uselessness

Women with studs in lower lips
tour in Yiddish theater companies
sing inspirational anthems
have loud conversations
about politics
and money
                              with men who are starving

by Clark Coolidge

This thought shall not remain much longer
no matter your laughter     memory water
we are colleagues we meet by the falls     it
starts with alcohol     ends in misty roses
the blunt end of the oxygen

Your information is no good still
you stay     all good things come to
the middle road provides no roses
a skull enclosed in cotton batting
Substance 10 futures await yo
one more moment and

They say you don’t want when you really do
ambition down so many roads
apparitions glowing in carlight
the provisions will run who knows how many
sank to the floor in Placitas lonely

by Clark Coolidge

Cauliflower crystals growing out the gas pipe
sky to give you no warning this weather
Broderick Crawford spoils the albumen task
by task rolls down bank opens belly band
meantime zone shoots altered suspenders
gnawed the windows to shrivel rockets
the note is in the blender dabbled double leader
they’re opening tonight the sponge as the doper is
improper mouse applications welted before you
watch a stand over the body of the one
shoot and sometimes popcorn does shove
shows up their bunk finale     ’member me ?
nice acceptance speech terms numbering in
the superficial just another tourmaline dream

by Carter Ratcliff

For me, it is the page.
Words break through it, but not these words.
Or not necessarily.

The break-through words may be unspoken.
Just as break-through emotions may be unfelt.

So says Diderot in The Paradox of the Actor,
without a word for the paradox of the prop master

or the prompter hidden away in a box itself hidden.
In plain sight, admittedly.

Or the prompter is a tree, alone and impossible to miss
in a glowing sea of grass.

There is light in the grass but no Enlightenment.

Our vegetable friends don’t need it,
nor do most animals.

As for the watery sea,
its ingrained eudemonia is self-evident.

Squid drift, dolphins bask, and as the curtain falls
on another day, the individual asks,

What did I get from this performance ?
How does it help me ?

These questions are the wrong questions, friend,
citizen, member of a diverse and uneasy population.

Ask, instead, what did I bring to the production ?
Did I flub my lines ?

Was I in the audience, even,
cheering as the fourth wall came tumbling down ?

If not, what is the point of my existence ?