THERMOS 8: John Craun

Poetry by New Orleans musician John Craun, from our spring 2012 issue. See also his long poem “Picks Up Lucid,” from our fifth issue. And look for a new album from his band, HAWN, in the near future.



FEATURE



(Vallejo)


The dead—all the dead—
are satisfied: their allotments—


the space allotted—conforms
                      to their whims—


they have whims now—
                                          they whisper,


                              we think,


              and they’re satisfied


(Youth)


and fuck youth this
line


we’re going back
and fuck that/enable this


time, paying
I turn…We’re usually
you know…A man


nice hair,       tux…?


(Projector)


I glimpsed the feature
through the particular failures
of happiness


the general, oxymoronic
cataclysm covered
which has to land somewhere,


so screens


(Desire)


              and something collapses
To anything around…


It was not firmly affixed
Your hair (What color?) rose-
colored, in this light…


Collecting birds. An eagle,
our eagle—see what I mean!—
                  through drifting leaves, drywall dust…


holds a comb or crumb


Occupied


There. That must be news.
                              Broadcasts


Continue; we have had time—
What a time!—and a little


Money What’s this?
                              Mid-priced luxury


And another terrace beyond


(Reunion)


Of that time when I went to that place
and did not feel what I expected to feel…


I felt alone.
I knelt in the grass, wet grass, at night,
and walked all day.


Those were the last days for those shoes;
the knees held up.


That place still exists—I’m shortening
this story…People live there,


                                drive to school
singing, eat a diner’s food


off plain, worn plates, take a place


(Feature)


A voice can make it true.
Our mouths were both occupied.
Make what true? What?


While they were looking for you…
They invaded, invaded,


invaded. Looking, looking for you—
marching, invading, looking


for this, for that; the world,
occupied—already occupied
at the time—unable to resist


with whatever occupied us


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