here the vicious ribbons hiss, swanning
their hypnotic cursive dances, as if were calligraphic curses.
thither the come-hither flickers and quick slithers back.

Darksome, tenebrous, smoked, obscure / the gloam-time, sable-vested, fumid / hour of the witch / the gathering of storms / she wrote poems good as anyone’s / becloud, bedim, mirksome, engloom / when the moon’s dark / caliginous, somber / it’s a blind man’s holiday / eclipsed / embalmed

A fairground fun, a circus troupe in the moments of repose on the dusty road from one town to the next – clowns and jugglers, carnies and freaks. What we are given to read is a pastime from one show to another. What happens on the margins, in the backrooms, during the show? In the Footnotes?... Well, you know what happens. We do.

And on the fourth midnight the new bride slumbered on the stretch of grass * And in the same breath, I was in the newly sprouted leaves * or in the fluttering breeze * and perhaps even in the deep waters * And the breath of the wind stirring little blossoms on the thick tree wailed in me * and bright streams of rain wept in me. *

What is contra natura is the dysfunctional rapport that human beings seem to have developed with this cosmic ladder, and that may very well be the source of what’s abusive in the power – whether cosmic, natural, or human.

It was on this final line / of descent that Avon brought / her Tarzan poem to a close, / following the message / from the Commander: / “MU-SIC! MU-SIC!”

When I died — a long time ago — I was buried with wolf-fangs and transistor radio. While brain festered in my skull, I pondered negative numbers and the mess I had left: bills, some jottings reminding me to return a phone call from the black side of the sun.

It was all a bullfight in the end—/The smell of death contends/With rain, and more blood than/We can measure or imagine is/Surrounded by spinning black/Umbrellas—

I am stupid, I am ungifted, I am awkward, but I pray to you, tall spruces. I am quite awkward, I am… a coward. Yesterday, I was frightened of a man I don't respect. It's because of my cowardice that I can't learn to ride a bicycle. I haven't enough will power for anything, but I pray to you, tall spruces.

pablo lopez reviews his own new book of poetry, out now from Anonymous Energy.

“I have yet to arrive / I will never arrive / in the center of everything is the poem / intact sun / inescapable night.”

“I have been wrong before, god of syntax / and understatement, god of slips in silk / and polyester, god of the laboratory, god of newsprint / and sunscreen”