To Ilsa
The pure pop songs of America
are crazy, Ilsa, i.e., if
a kiss is just a kiss is mere
signifier, then that sad sack
standing in the rain at the station
got what he deserved.
If every gin joint in the world
is interchangeable, if fate is what it is
(the choices we made, yes, but also
the choices that were made for us)--
Resistance, Ilsa, is key.
So Much Leftover Life to Kill
Today the Xerces woke from their dunes
stunned after seventy years of sleep
in a blue funnel they rose toward the sun
dizzy, hot
with error--
Hello to the promises made by the right hand
good-bye, waves the left
Red sky come morning, sailor take warning
—will the sun follow us
to our end?
The day made of tongues and wind--
cloud resembling minnow shifts to shark
breeze through a keyhole, water music, lark
In time all fragments become love letters--
is the enemy of my enemy
my friend?
There is much leftover to be lived--
Pulled from a Dead Woman’s Comb
Cloud like a hammerhead shark.
Cloud like a waterlogged book.
Cloud like an inverse roof dissolving
into many cloudlets.
Cloud like the angry goat
I used to see in the spackled ceiling
of my childhood bedroom.
Cloud like a cartoon dog.
What would perfect quiet look like--
a lone cloud’s shadow?
Things steeped in unreality
are equal in weight,
the level of threat
unpredictable.
I no longer discern
asterisk from email,
blank page from broken tine--
the clouds, impassive.
Some thoughts burn through
& burn clean.
Other thoughts blaze
like unattended fire.
Cloud of forgetting.
Cloud of unknowing.
Cloud of hair set loose
on afternoon wind.
May it become part of a nest somewhere.
By fainter Hammers—further heard--
I held that music in my mind
& could not sleep.
My brittle nature surfaces,
broken tines.
Before they drop full Music on--
I heard it the way a hawk
hears a cloud pass overhead.
Your Breath—has time to straighten--
Permission is granted
on a sliding scale.
Windy day, windy day--
All best wishes, your
connection has timed out.
Sadness Starts Early, Scientists Say
Scientists say you can divide people into three groups by bacterial ecosystem.
Scientists say yes, there is water on the moon, confirming long-held suspicions.
One holds fast to the belief love will win, but sadness starts early.
Scientists applying for grants, scientists deep inside a double-blind study,
scientists co-opted by the military industrial complex.
Sad scientists lugging their suitcases to conventions, sad scientists with
animated PowerPoints of icebergs melting, sad scientists persevering against willful ignorance
and those beholden to whatever money tells them to say.
Scientists hope to save Pando [also known as the Trembling Giant, 47,000 male quaking aspens
sharing the same root system] [which happens to be the world’s largest living organism] [and is
currently thought to be dying from drought, insects, and disease] by building a fence around it.
Not all politicians believe in science, and they get rewarded for expressing disbelief.
File under: I Just Shake My Head.
There will never be a cure for sadness, but that’s okay, some scientists say, because sadness
improves your memory, and besides: if you’re not sad at all you can’t possibly be awake.
“Don’t worry, Mama, the wind knows my name”
Tumult is another mother.
As grasses lean
toward middle age
they toughen and singe,
drop seeds
as replacements.
The pure pop songs of America
are crazy, Ilsa, i.e., if
a kiss is just a kiss is mere
signifier, then that sad sack
standing in the rain at the station
got what he deserved.
If every gin joint in the world
is interchangeable, if fate is what it is
(the choices we made, yes, but also
the choices that were made for us)--
Resistance, Ilsa, is key.
So Much Leftover Life to Kill
Today the Xerces woke from their dunes
stunned after seventy years of sleep
in a blue funnel they rose toward the sun
dizzy, hot
with error--
Hello to the promises made by the right hand
good-bye, waves the left
Red sky come morning, sailor take warning
—will the sun follow us
to our end?
The day made of tongues and wind--
cloud resembling minnow shifts to shark
breeze through a keyhole, water music, lark
In time all fragments become love letters--
is the enemy of my enemy
my friend?
There is much leftover to be lived--
Pulled from a Dead Woman’s Comb
Cloud like a hammerhead shark.
Cloud like a waterlogged book.
Cloud like an inverse roof dissolving
into many cloudlets.
Cloud like the angry goat
I used to see in the spackled ceiling
of my childhood bedroom.
Cloud like a cartoon dog.
What would perfect quiet look like--
a lone cloud’s shadow?
Things steeped in unreality
are equal in weight,
the level of threat
unpredictable.
I no longer discern
asterisk from email,
blank page from broken tine--
the clouds, impassive.
Some thoughts burn through
& burn clean.
Other thoughts blaze
like unattended fire.
Cloud of forgetting.
Cloud of unknowing.
Cloud of hair set loose
on afternoon wind.
May it become part of a nest somewhere.
By fainter Hammers—further heard--
I held that music in my mind
& could not sleep.
My brittle nature surfaces,
broken tines.
Before they drop full Music on--
I heard it the way a hawk
hears a cloud pass overhead.
Your Breath—has time to straighten--
Permission is granted
on a sliding scale.
Windy day, windy day--
All best wishes, your
connection has timed out.
Sadness Starts Early, Scientists Say
Scientists say you can divide people into three groups by bacterial ecosystem.
Scientists say yes, there is water on the moon, confirming long-held suspicions.
One holds fast to the belief love will win, but sadness starts early.
Scientists applying for grants, scientists deep inside a double-blind study,
scientists co-opted by the military industrial complex.
Sad scientists lugging their suitcases to conventions, sad scientists with
animated PowerPoints of icebergs melting, sad scientists persevering against willful ignorance
and those beholden to whatever money tells them to say.
Scientists hope to save Pando [also known as the Trembling Giant, 47,000 male quaking aspens
sharing the same root system] [which happens to be the world’s largest living organism] [and is
currently thought to be dying from drought, insects, and disease] by building a fence around it.
Not all politicians believe in science, and they get rewarded for expressing disbelief.
File under: I Just Shake My Head.
There will never be a cure for sadness, but that’s okay, some scientists say, because sadness
improves your memory, and besides: if you’re not sad at all you can’t possibly be awake.
“Don’t worry, Mama, the wind knows my name”
Tumult is another mother.
As grasses lean
toward middle age
they toughen and singe,
drop seeds
as replacements.
Kristen Hanlon’s poems have been published in Colorado Review, Volt, New Orleans Review, Interim, Puerto del Sol, and elsewhere. A chapbook, Proximity Talks, was published by Noemi Press. During the first decade of the new millennium, she edited XANTIPPE, an annual print journal of poetry and reviews of small press and university press books. A freelance writer, editor, and nonprofit worker, she lives in Alameda, an island city off the coast of Oakland, California. |