Skip Fox
3 poems
**
late summer
Crowds of clouds each day, thunderstorms every after-
noon. Deepening sounds down season's halls resonate in
dream. Last night my son tried to stab me in my sleep. Or
a man stands on a plateau where small, fat animals are
dying. In his mind there was too much of what the
intelligence community would call chatter for him to
discern any patterns of movement, groupings, messages
of mal intent, or sudden losses from stores he thought
secure. Lightning in the bowels, black sky tinged with
green. Thunder rolls beneath summer's walls, brows at
20,000 feet. Lawn still growing as hair on skull unaware
the grand engine has come to a halt and now reverses it-
self. This time forever. Your last refuge is being torn a-
sunder, nowhere to return, even if you could remember.
**
late autumn
There are words like air and water, elemental as iron and
heavy breathing. We are on a barrel and the barrel is
moving, engaged we say. Words like driving from
the backseat downhill with the accelerator stuck-on-full
in a strange city. The attentions are bamboo, lively green
shoots, they stand beneath an olive blue sky, or is it onion
blue? Has anyone tampered with the controls? No longer
at night, the late popping. Here, coffee is of considered
significance, as is a good shit. It's autumn. I mean in the
fall I never thought would happen. That's a lovely, strange
contraption. A car with little legs and a skirt of banana
leaves. Baboon umbrella. I need serviced immediately.
Mute as planets over my grave, or they are borne on the
backs of dolphins, swimming from an antithetical center.
**
no wiser and worse for the wear
the possible leans in a doorway,
his back to you,
you are in a chair,
in the room,
beyond the silhouette of his form,
plains shimmer in a hard summer day,
the room sounds like just after loud music,
he shifts his head, a shoulder,
you are trying to draw his face
from memory,
he whistles,
you take another drink
**
return to sawbuck 2.3
**
Skip Fox is recently in Spoken War, EOACH, little red leaves, Big Bridge, Midway, Snow Monkey, 21 Stars, Apochryphal Texts, there, Kulture Vulture, Mustacioed, Indefinite Space, Wire Sandwich, 88, Aught, The Tiny, Unlikely Stories, Unarmed Journal, Yawp, Ambit, Gestalten, Sugar Mule, Poetic Inhalation, Tarpaulin Sky, Hamilton Stone Review, Malleable Jangle, Black Box, eratio, House Organ, Word for/Word, moria. Previously in such littles as Talisman, Hambone, lower limit speech, Exquisite Corpse, sendecki.com, o.blek, etc. Four chapbooks (Bloody Twin, Oasis, Auguste), and two books (Potes & Poets, Ahadada). In a couple anthologies including Another South: Experimental Writing in the South (U of Alabama P).
**
late summer
Crowds of clouds each day, thunderstorms every after-
noon. Deepening sounds down season's halls resonate in
dream. Last night my son tried to stab me in my sleep. Or
a man stands on a plateau where small, fat animals are
dying. In his mind there was too much of what the
intelligence community would call chatter for him to
discern any patterns of movement, groupings, messages
of mal intent, or sudden losses from stores he thought
secure. Lightning in the bowels, black sky tinged with
green. Thunder rolls beneath summer's walls, brows at
20,000 feet. Lawn still growing as hair on skull unaware
the grand engine has come to a halt and now reverses it-
self. This time forever. Your last refuge is being torn a-
sunder, nowhere to return, even if you could remember.
**
late autumn
There are words like air and water, elemental as iron and
heavy breathing. We are on a barrel and the barrel is
moving, engaged we say. Words like driving from
the backseat downhill with the accelerator stuck-on-full
in a strange city. The attentions are bamboo, lively green
shoots, they stand beneath an olive blue sky, or is it onion
blue? Has anyone tampered with the controls? No longer
at night, the late popping. Here, coffee is of considered
significance, as is a good shit. It's autumn. I mean in the
fall I never thought would happen. That's a lovely, strange
contraption. A car with little legs and a skirt of banana
leaves. Baboon umbrella. I need serviced immediately.
Mute as planets over my grave, or they are borne on the
backs of dolphins, swimming from an antithetical center.
**
no wiser and worse for the wear
the possible leans in a doorway,
his back to you,
you are in a chair,
in the room,
beyond the silhouette of his form,
plains shimmer in a hard summer day,
the room sounds like just after loud music,
he shifts his head, a shoulder,
you are trying to draw his face
from memory,
he whistles,
you take another drink
**
return to sawbuck 2.3
**
Skip Fox is recently in Spoken War, EOACH, little red leaves, Big Bridge, Midway, Snow Monkey, 21 Stars, Apochryphal Texts, there, Kulture Vulture, Mustacioed, Indefinite Space, Wire Sandwich, 88, Aught, The Tiny, Unlikely Stories, Unarmed Journal, Yawp, Ambit, Gestalten, Sugar Mule, Poetic Inhalation, Tarpaulin Sky, Hamilton Stone Review, Malleable Jangle, Black Box, eratio, House Organ, Word for/Word, moria. Previously in such littles as Talisman, Hambone, lower limit speech, Exquisite Corpse, sendecki.com, o.blek, etc. Four chapbooks (Bloody Twin, Oasis, Auguste), and two books (Potes & Poets, Ahadada). In a couple anthologies including Another South: Experimental Writing in the South (U of Alabama P).
