mint moon

yuriy tarnawsky

Moon
made from mint,
lips
made from the city,
on X-Ray bridges
flesh
looks for its candles,
fingers—
for long perspective lines
so that it could join them,
something dark
fell out of the skin
and out of the date of birth
into the negative of water
but no bicycles came
smudged by knees
to chase after it,
a taxicab drove up
with bones in place of its engine
bringing along print
skulls use
to make themselves look pretty,
a detachment of teeth
is being put through its paces
by a pile of bricks,
railroad tracks that form a cross
bring to people’s backs
landscapes
which they try to shun
but which gave birth to them.


from ye-ye songs

chlorine in the hot air

her pink ass looked like a tadpole or a nipple as it sagged. he sat on the side of the bed watching her get dressed, amused but saying nothing and nothing when they took some time to sit with their back to each other,
as the odor of the morning started to smell. He was still sitting their saying nothing by the time she pulled on her flowery dress and was still saying nothing when he heard her drive off. the blue linoleum on the floor was starting to remind him of the pool, where they had been like in some sierr lagoon.

if he could have seen himself in any eye other than his own, like the secret camera the boss kept there in the top corner, he would have seen
a stupid looking man in swimming trunks. I need some pulse in my face some vin in my veins he said as he came awake because of the chlorine in the hot air \

the chlorine was like coffee it tasted good and he still was young enough to sit around the side of the pool.
then came the the knock on the door as the maid called on everyone to leave for cleaning.

lori says

your head would have exploded, sue
it felt like world war 3 (giving birth to luke)

this is the most important thing you will ever do (said to pregnant women)
yeah, i had a black roommate (in college)

the sounds of the birds as they fly through the sky is astonishing this time of day
it echoes like a funshot through this canyon of regret

my father’s face while stoned

how graceful the curve where the wall meets the ceiling this is not a cathedral but my home

i believe, said me, that this is the and i swerved to avoid the sensation of pain.

pas de deux

pater
mater
matter

violets

yuriy tarnawsky


Violets also
have a life,
a name
for a passport
filled with an abyss,
stomachs
that digest
what’s left over
from souls,
guts
whose form
fingers
copy,
nerves
that love
to dig themselves deep
into the flesh….

Violets also
put up the tallest
buildings
so that it’d be harder
for bodies
to live,
they love
with their teeth
clenched tight,
they dream
about violet
seas,
they go to war
under violet
flags,
and they die
on violet
bayonets!

from ye-ye songs

SUDS

SUDS
i shud take a shower. quickly was his mordant before returning to his typing.
reply behind the times new roman screen. after a few minutes the drain was clogging up with blood and guts, to quote bismark, the blood and guts of pig iron and war. when she came out i couldnt make no sense of it all. is this too black? she enquired with her dress folded in her hand.

Louis Le Brocuy: A Picnic

Gerard Flynn

How people are stacked together,
On top of one another
In the sands
Or touching in an elevation
Like steps from foot
To mouth and on again.
What perversions still are white grains of land
Or twinkling in the ornate summer grand canal.
Four words and we all begin.
I am a sinner and here is the sin:
I saw this painting and had all this in mind
And so the winding staircase fell and so did
I.
I tried to comprehend
But that was like being foreign
And never seeing a crumbling sandcastle
Flooding as
of  a worthy find
Yet this I was talking to the traveler as he wrote
And spoke like his wheels upon a sod of mime
Which didn’t move, were broke.

flower children

yuriy tarnawsky

On this side
of mirrors,
by the marshes
of glass,
next to hands
that creak
like doors,
there live the yellow
descendants,
they button
daisies
instead of buttons,
on their teeth,
instead of on their shirts,
they watch
legs
full of seeds
like sunflowers
that follow the sun,
they pluck petals
from them
to better see
horizons
and their own skin,
they marvel at their fingers
that pull
endless blades of straw
out of their cheeks,
they water their names
with water
no one notices
under the print.

The mirrors turn yellow
like paper
and menstrual blood
full of shiny
scissors
cuts them up into strips
to get rid of
the traces
of babies’ feet
from the rusty stains
on themselves
and on suspension
bridges.

from ye-ye songs

a week ago

Susan Scutti

at the party the art opening the party
white wine was chilled and served and the people gathered

in a thickly accented
the woman spoke
the artist

how badly she wanted people to see
this most ancient of art forms
lacquer paintings that are so hard

she left her daughter behind when she was 12

and the artist has great purpose, such great purpose to share her work which is based on ancient methods so she travels around the world and she has brought forth life and cast it off as well and the daughter is
and the mother travels everywhere making herself known and felt and listened to and photographed

she wanted more people in the shot
calling out to others

and oh paintings crowded the walls of the crowded room the paintings made with gold leaf and black and red oil to form characters that seemed to melt into the background and disappear like marks made by a child’s hand

so much of life is lost and then there is what is remembered and stored in recesses of the brain to be brought into light or not

what occurred in my father’s mind while he was failing from alzheimer’s, what exactly is decline?

vietnam

yuriy tarnawsky

in Vietnam
color
starts
in the elbows,
red jungles
shake
black squares
next to the teeth,
green circles
jump off bone joints
and chase
the color of holes
fleeing
to the horizon
of fingers,
and fingers
shine
like mother of pearl,
skyscrapers
bend down among them
to shake out
glass shards
and staircases
from inside their knees
which crave
for tickling….

Let’s go
to Vietnam,
my love,
we’ll fill
the mouth of your hair
with my mouth,
we’ll find white and pink
flowers
between the surfaces
of our wrists,
we’ll throw
the wilted
wreaths
of our faces
onto the water
that flows
into South
China
Sea.
I assure you,
there’s a connection
between the intersections
of women’s laps
and street numbers
in London
and the wrinkles
on the faces
of these yellow
people.


from ye-ye poems