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Two Poems

Ian Dreiblatt

i mean most milk happens in galaxies

beautiful moon I love you!


mysterious longing I carve my forked name into your lashes!


sweeping despondency I drive amid your paisley throb!


laryngitis I sew a line of yarn across your bread!


our failures of imagination are failures of justice


sweet-tooth as syntax build a commons, frontiers squealing surplus


it’s my nature to become unsure


we live like everyone else but like one isn’t supposed to live


no more involuntary art


no more waking up spatula in hand to walk down down down down down down down


sweet prurience I glue things to driftwood in the warmth of your distraction!


dislocation I streak my eyes with cinnabar!


counterpoint I tarry in the microphone’s filth!


delusion you seem rich I mean you live like a very rich person!


revolt against the continuity of curves


a successful emotional niche requires appropriate intensity calibration


all scary, no spice. all aga, no memnon


reverie clicks its tongue: a particular indecision, a beachball, a wrench


oh please come away with me we can shed all parts of speech


while vowels slow-melt back into the walls of the pyramid


I am in ancient

egypt with the prophet

Jeremiah. is it weird

I ask to be a prophet?


no it just means they

haven’t burned what

you wrote he says


I came from a

lineage of priests in

a small northern

town, we had a

sacred mailbox, all

the sheep of

happiness everything


we moved to the city

which is awful got

work as priests an

impossible situation we’d

be reading the most

beautiful ancient shit

that to be in any world

is also an exile our songs the

sleeping of bridges all this

super beautiful shit

while they slit screaming

goats’ necks thru the

window divine right

of goat’s blood everywhere


and then bastards came

the incoherence in their

teeth an ache that

only dominion could fill


so we fled here to

the birthplace of

difference, to make

cities of ourselves,

a tiny temple wherever

any two words meet


what would you do all

day? I’d write he says

or talk out loud for my

friends to write down, I

mastered the law of

phantomed bodies, learned

to unspool whatever

tongues knew


I cast red fabric from

the library windows &

tried to make an intimacy

between my memory

and the memory of

the world only it turns

out worlds don’t remember

a goddamn thing


poetry is hard work! I

say & he’s like yeah poetry

is hard work


what did you write? I

ask, o what does

it matter? I sided with

kings, priests, teachers, I

picked allies &

causes in rooms I

dreamt a deep sleep of

pure listening &

carried back what

I could, none of this

makes sense now, here, I

am a different person


you sound depressed I say

not really he tells me I

worked the braids of

circumstance as best

I could the air & how

to fill it I lived a life of

art & besides someone had

to do something, us

just living there in

the desert so much

past & so little history

Ian Dreiblatt’s translation of Dmitrii Furman’s Spiral is forthcoming from Verso Books. His poetry collection forget thee is forthcoming from Ugly Duckling Presse. He’s TV Commercials Correspondent at the Believer and lives in Brooklyn, where he talks to people about their dogs.

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