James Barickman

springpoem

 

hack to be idyllic
in central park? dusty water
a horned ghost &
the sludge of trees
 
it is the authority of an afternoon
i have taught myself to whistle
only drawing breath inward
vibrating the spittle strung
o’er a symmetry break
 
spring poem, i am waiting
‘side the white cage when
a family of deer materializes
in the middle of the garden state pkwy
and fucks up my car—pick apart
 
rubble like a seed trapped
between thumb and
middle fingers                  Pick
 
a part in a poem
you read me
abt david wojnarowicz
that, for some reason
sticks out, and goes david
i know you could never love me
 
james, this is serious!! :
 
a buck’ll leave the forest
like some guy leaves
the forest: one ft chance
one pound recognition
 
Spring poem, this is a trepid curling
of self like lips ‘gainst a maw:
see some stiffness in their side
some quiet         their eyes
 
toeing a hole in the yard and
putting a face to the wreck.