Ode

Get out of there.
Siren sans the sea, you’ve stored

Yourself with kitchenware – Oui, oui, you are a 

Remnant woman, papery Miss. Swimming
In packaged smog, a gray goddess 

In a cloud contained. This cave of grays

Is no place for a deity the likes of 

You. I eat each of your moves, unrolling the 

Lines. An archive stacked on the steel 

Shelf, silver rack cooled, as if they still require time 

To cook. What a waste. Varnished, calloused, 
Scarred. For god's sake, put them back in the book.

Isn’t it uncomfortable? Huddled up
Near the back, near the back, arms
Wrapped about your voice, a choir of
Watered screams – Get out, please come out.
You can’t continue bottling my theology. Your 
Grail-head, your lap-chapel. Your hair is a prayer.

To deserve to perch in a
Tabernacle, yes you’ve that badge, that

Patch of grisly gauze. But why will you not
Budge? Look upon my back! The black
Manifesto, square and of skin.

You may take it, you may peel it off

If you come out from there.

Hold it to your breast and nurse it with

Sweet ennui like the mother you are. The ‘a’s 

Will latch fast. It is yours, stitched to 

Me at best. It crisply calls and I hear it. I

Hear it all, your turbulent way of the

Stressed, the unstressed, the pause –
The door is horizontal. 
The door swings down – Shuffle to the side, 

My opal, my gassed Godiva. If you will
Not oxidize with me then I am coming 

In. We will sit on that spindly stage

Together, both in chairs of casserole 

Pans, cookie sheets. Two levels, like
A glimmering bunk bed! You were 

Wise to retreat.

© 2014 BENJAMIN SMITH

The Acts

A man outside the pharmacy,
Beside the carmine crust of a
Truck, Asked me if I was okay.
Months ago. I think, I sleep and
Wake on slabs, on slabs
Like rootless rafts - I had forgotten
Him. His trim face deep with
Wise wells. And a billed hat.

There was a rap of pistons on glass,
Pallid phalanges, and the
Coiled hair, manikin fairy, eyes
Mined from a geode. She strode
In unwelcome air, placed the cleaver
In my hand. She did not know the
Hazard, rutted brain, the
Blemished land. We spoke of writing.

Why do clocks look more like Shiva,
Blades of planes chopping days
To a fog of pills. I had forgotten him.
Fire halo, the monocle. Thrashing
Through molasses that is today,
Is tomorrow. Dicing up these acts.

Fonts are fractal, jagged lines each
Stamped with the time. Where is the
Advancement in that? The calligraphy?
Common names: Connie, 

Deborah, Susan.
They are kind to me. Middle-aged
Mysteries I’ll never meet.
They are kind to me.

© 2014 BENJAMIN SMITH

Curriculum

Rigid; the required set, the tired

Petting of heels on Time’s carpet.

Birthed into a naiveté, dense.

A school of khakis and one single

Hall. One becomes a scab so

Immense that motility is miraculous.

A checkmark, a tally. Tightened

Skin brimming with the fat of fourth,

Of fifth, of sixth. Hand in hand with

An epiphany. 

Skip across the yawn that flanks

Each bank of a universe. Cry over

A calculator and mine, and mine,

Until the searing nougat of this earth

Is a slingshot adept at knocking

The metallic membrane from your lips.

Speak, speak cautiously. Step into

Sects and show them your teeth.

Give it a year, long enough to

Shred the gown, and then return to

Tunnels. Do not linger on “Parental.”

Bore, blind and blissful and hit the

Buried totem, the slender anti-amulet.

And permit it. Permit the whirlwind

To whisk you to cloud ceilings,

Fiery floors. Myriads of men, other

Mothers, other brothers, other

All. It will shift, like cheap plastic in

The pit. Let it twist. It will twist regardless.



© 2014 BENJAMIN SMITH