Posts Tagged ‘feature’

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.



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


and fuck youth this

we’re going back
and fuck that/enable this

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

nice hair,       tux…?


I glimpsed the feature
through the particular failures
of happiness

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

so screens


              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


There. That must be news.

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

Money What’s this?
                              Mid-priced luxury

And another terrace beyond


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


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

Gregory Lawless: Two New Poems

And this morning we bring our feature of Gregory Lawless to a close with these two new poems. Thanks to Greg and to everyone who followed along. Please look for Greg’s books online through Back Pages Books and BlazeVOX, his publishers. — AS




Stained-glass misgivings / Dawn-filings / Fissures
of photographic time



Watching your mother lie down / Hands to temples
or chest



The alone part / The ringing with wrench and
bucket to scatter these starlings now



Hay-field finale of threshes / From the highway,
just miles and miles of bales




I’ve Seen Thee Far Away

I’ve seen thee in the brush, a scrawl of buckthorn
tenting thee, thy fangs sleeping, thy bread gnawed
down to rind.


I’ve seen thee dying like a man who must ask how
to die.


I’ve seen thee grow tree shadow and thy lapping at
the creek.


Thy car is nettled and thy wheel wells stir with


The world-flower has eaten thee.


The dirt speech of her petals — she spooks thee with
her thorns.


Come here, the moon sugars the scrap barrels. The
cinderblocks rough the meadow. Come ring thy
empty tin of turpentine.


Lift the field cat from its crate. Trudge thy fingers
through its mange and chew what fleas away.


Name it, thy precious wreck.


Thy darkling. Thine orphan. The black friendship of
thy days.

Mary Margaret Alvarado: The Myth of Safety

The Myth of Safety

This is not an industry and you are not a product. This is a triangle breathing.

Chessa means peace. Bianca means peace. Irene Frieda Godfrey and Inga mean peace. Wilfred means desiring peace. Friedhelm means peace helmet. Hedwyn means far peace.


When I say Lucy Lucy—lightlightlight—I mean a nest that’s dark. I mean Death: Don’t.

The pulped stuff of a human who loves. Cruciform. All of it.

When I say Lou I mean translated. I mean who did I think I was.

I woke up dead. I had not been. Often so alive. Lost all that flesh in the night. I asked for November, for May. I began to want what’s plain.

I was shaking off the bed. But you were in my arms. The shaking was convulsing. But you were in my arms. Scared that I would drop you, still you are in my arms. I had no use for the crook of them. I do.

This is who did I think I was. This is Moses had to drape his face. This is my face erased.

Shut up British Petroleum. Shut up a little commerce. Shut up wanters. What could you want. This is Moses, draped. This is my dying face.

Shut up real vampires. Shut up internet. Here comes a moose like eight centuries walking.

With this poem, and with gratitude and appreciation, we bring our week of featuring Mia Alvarado to a close. Thank you Mia, thank you poetry, welcome back July. — AS