six poems
Stacy Blint
Involuous
In the wobbly space of
the way my body smells
ice clear Wisconsin air
see your breath
a purple goblin
a turquoise bike
a miniature American flag
Minnie Mouse
painted on a dead stump
tipped over lawn chairs
what might be
raspberry bushes
A napping dog
opens his eyes
Who’s allowed to have the mauve
was it oak
to say the world
lost its letters
Ravaging the end of this pandemic
the bigger better assumption
flooded in prismatic light
fire
place
nonnegotiable
I hibernate like a bear
dreaming of sea turtles
kit houses
Come back into your toes
unstriving
Actors that are Other Talent
I’m any case
The flowers speak passionately
from the kitchen table
about their time
beneath the earth
stems gluing away in water
On the wall
I’m the gallery
an oversized replica
of a folding measuring stick
painting on the collective edges
wood extending
an arm and leg below
At the opening someone moved it
tried to make it
work
It came off the wall
breaking where it was attached
During the lecture the distraught gallerist
came to me and whispered
‘is there an enraged man in the room’
Wearing a flowered orange sundress
I walked up Brady Street in the snow
to the intimate Italian place
wanting tiramisu
Instead I leave with two different colored boots
walking away
trying to read text messages
on the tips of my fingers
beneath my gloves
There’s almost always an enraged man in the room
whether or not there’s any rage
How do I translate
fragility
the end of birthdays
when breath continues
Go back to the book that says
vomit first
then make art
between moons and footsteps
Nice Toilet
Killing someone by shrinking them
turning them to dryer lint
stuffing them into a cigar box
and stabbing them repeatedly with a cheap ballpoint pen
while singing the Oscar Mayer bologna song
has to mean something right
Fuck that noise
Toy our invilement
You Tell Me
Good vibes here
if nowhere else
Window of tolerance
What cold power
an unrivaled deep state sleep
snoring its statement
How much butter would be needed
How much would it cost
To sculpt the word FAT
in balloon letters
and then pin a pastel floral pattern from the late 80s to it
Money makes it appear
As if the Page Didn’t Exist
I imagine everything healing
potholes
bomb craters
Beneath all the death and decay
a loamy nothing
in utero
In a room full of kittens and puppies
I want to see the machine
that purifies your blood
even if it’s boring
What if there were no goals
only dreams to reach into
the poem’s insistent allowing
When the body expands expands expands
beyond the world machine’s ability to contain it
What delight can be
dancing outside
Scorched earth maps a topography of the dead
the alphabet isn’t a clock or chronology
they still haven’t invented smell-o-vision
Here in the abiding canopy
of nighttime green
In ancient in ancient
Hazards to the blow the now
What do the Fabrics Say
The pray is out tasting the moonlight
on a pool float
looking like Nick Cave
Ask your father
on the hourly
Suspended on spongy peat
in a brick house
I lost half this poem
by deleting a text
on a different device
Best part
way the diorama
folds in on itself
hot glue lets go
piece parts
now shoppable again
fox skull painted bronze
porcelain lady legs
plaster teeth
plastic jewels
nylon flowers
bring these birds to my dream
how nice to drift
Fuck the hustle
let’s streak
Like salads
I keep liking things by accident
strife
or stroking
streaking or stroking
spring has disappeared
winter boom
sublimates to summer
Is it even possible
to know shit from Shinola
feet fear feet feat
Like your face
the wood needs to be moisturized
even death
shouldn’t dry out too much