James Grinwis
4 poems
**
Bicycle
The death of bicycles because
death is a throat.
When I went to see something other
than thorns lodged in throats, brains,
and groin bags I found a small,
drowned stone.
The bicycle is strong and waves awhile
though it really misses us.
It’s broke and icicles strew from its limbs.
Red grease stirs the road.
**
Rondoletto
A jog
In a clump of aloneness
he went for a jog
turning up a stone in the road
he recalled the name of a tune
a small bird gives it at dawn
on the morning of death
Gravel is often walked upon and ground
the way a griot is social
Shew:
He shewed her and then she shewed him.
Woken, that is rube’s text,
alleys of flesh
Strange, Aeneas rising from the audio
Taut
Aeneas emerging from alleys to engage in the engagements of Aeneas.
Chine: the backbone of a fish
It was lade, as in
“removed with a ladle.”
Lip like a hasp.
Caged rear.
Milkataraium, a place for storing milk.
Auk.
**
Wisconsonian
Looking for Sibelius’ bicycle.
The squares of a Moroccan rug came undone
surrounded by estrogen
Replicas, frameworks, strings
Movement like billboards,
scissors pulled from sacs.
A young woman came
pulling herself as an extraction of hair
from mole ears.
People, hunting the tempests inside them
with barbed shots of beer.
I was left to convey pieces.
He had, Sibelius, it is believed,
a number of bicycles.
*
A geography of low hair.
Explosions like peanuts.
An inverted “I”.
Oats like corks.
Hidden boxcar cities.
I decided to call before sensing it.
Ego as gel, solidifying, oat-like
Jim Morrisons
Good magic for bad, tap the wand
one times forward two times.
*
The hills are past the shapes of
not being what I since become, to nestle deeper.
Clouds like sacs of charcoal.
Slightly Mephistophelian, the clouds.
Most everyone bitching
you spit a pit into your palm
and place it back into your mouth
the world for this
seems to come together of sorts.
**
Sonatina
A woman approaches the door,
smears balm to her lips, kisses the knob.
The painting: full of voids, of the sort envisioned by men
who have worked in empty warehouses a day too long.
A tan applies itself to daylight.
How many times to use “radiant,” “diffuse,” and “sad.”
Boy in frayed sweater imitates an earthling.
He was howling, and his voice pushed out an indescribable pain.
No, you could say “constricted,” “pounding,” “throbbed,”
“like a drill bearing down.” “Completely crushed.”
**
return to sawbuck 2.4
**
James Grinwis lives in Florence, MA, and edits bateau, a new magazine and chapbook press. His work has appeared recently in Sou'wester, Bitter Oleander, 580 Split, Sentence, and The Modern Review.
**
Bicycle
The death of bicycles because
death is a throat.
When I went to see something other
than thorns lodged in throats, brains,
and groin bags I found a small,
drowned stone.
The bicycle is strong and waves awhile
though it really misses us.
It’s broke and icicles strew from its limbs.
Red grease stirs the road.
**
Rondoletto
A jog
In a clump of aloneness
he went for a jog
turning up a stone in the road
he recalled the name of a tune
a small bird gives it at dawn
on the morning of death
Gravel is often walked upon and ground
the way a griot is social
Shew:
He shewed her and then she shewed him.
Woken, that is rube’s text,
alleys of flesh
Strange, Aeneas rising from the audio
Taut
Aeneas emerging from alleys to engage in the engagements of Aeneas.
Chine: the backbone of a fish
It was lade, as in
“removed with a ladle.”
Lip like a hasp.
Caged rear.
Milkataraium, a place for storing milk.
Auk.
**
Wisconsonian
Looking for Sibelius’ bicycle.
The squares of a Moroccan rug came undone
surrounded by estrogen
Replicas, frameworks, strings
Movement like billboards,
scissors pulled from sacs.
A young woman came
pulling herself as an extraction of hair
from mole ears.
People, hunting the tempests inside them
with barbed shots of beer.
I was left to convey pieces.
He had, Sibelius, it is believed,
a number of bicycles.
*
A geography of low hair.
Explosions like peanuts.
An inverted “I”.
Oats like corks.
Hidden boxcar cities.
I decided to call before sensing it.
Ego as gel, solidifying, oat-like
Jim Morrisons
Good magic for bad, tap the wand
one times forward two times.
*
The hills are past the shapes of
not being what I since become, to nestle deeper.
Clouds like sacs of charcoal.
Slightly Mephistophelian, the clouds.
Most everyone bitching
you spit a pit into your palm
and place it back into your mouth
the world for this
seems to come together of sorts.
**
Sonatina
A woman approaches the door,
smears balm to her lips, kisses the knob.
The painting: full of voids, of the sort envisioned by men
who have worked in empty warehouses a day too long.
A tan applies itself to daylight.
How many times to use “radiant,” “diffuse,” and “sad.”
Boy in frayed sweater imitates an earthling.
He was howling, and his voice pushed out an indescribable pain.
No, you could say “constricted,” “pounding,” “throbbed,”
“like a drill bearing down.” “Completely crushed.”
**
return to sawbuck 2.4
**
James Grinwis lives in Florence, MA, and edits bateau, a new magazine and chapbook press. His work has appeared recently in Sou'wester, Bitter Oleander, 580 Split, Sentence, and The Modern Review.
Labels: 2.4, james grinwis
