Apartment Poetry Quarterly

16A              16B              16C              16D              16E              16F


16b Elise Houcek




Affords. I do yesterday

to which I provided audio, and some number of pleats

I provided the whoosh in the ear

and nine famous. If I can still tell who really wants

to go with me, by that time, the banned will have missed

the line where it goes, no truer

than a slow pencil is the most masterful stabilizer initiated.

But by that time I’ll be gone, and I won’t have a swing

on which to sigh about it.

Youth, like a swing

sun-out against the blue

of the sky, horizon of chain

dripping watercolors in the clear image

for you my whore

am I not just a little farther out

and are we not at last interns

as Deleuze and Guattari are ropes in the mast’s front way for each other?

Even you who said you wanted to go

did not really say you wanted to go.

You hated me on purpose.

Then, sex dreams.

A dog named Bernard I guess

A Pope named Atari

Do you want the whining

that is of age yet also of youth?

Are you sure problems braid and stir pots?






A chance to maim, a sneeze to crop, a pizza

trained to the height of a spigot

shot, shot me playing

in the heart of a pillow with you huh

is it palpable or trained, I cannot tame the root - tooth - truth

but is it palpable or trained (and where is each saga

to be last for, to be trained, in each, at last for). They say we all are

born given the specific gifts and mall

air adapted lungs to survive the specific density saga

we are born in, or again, to be agrarian, whether

to be might, to be a mite in the weather. And by its smallness

perfect              and by its smallness

trained. A coordination of instruments which via reincarnation is trained for each eventually.

A camping arrangement in which the spigot in green grass reaches toward the moon–that too, is life.

And the add-ons which surefire beg to gosh, you will be in drat also.

I am afraid

by my life

I have cornered you, or by speaking by

your life I have cornered you, thrust

you into that chamber where the right coniferous sound

ends you up in a different century hark unless the Droop Fathers

can speak, via passion alone, the blunt postprandial you who’s out of time and GI vulnerable.

Unless they can speak that into being.

They cannot crane their necks toward Source, for their necks

droop. And no crane means no manner or recourse, stuck

on gloss, stomach aches. I’m as wrong as a baby supping quotients

but at least I’m a dirge and my neck’s straight.

I’m a dirge? Yes, I’m a dirge. A song taupe

imbuing blank arrivals

in tunes of panic

in tunes of how come

in tunes I can neither prove nor draw.