New Poems by Jeff Alessandrelli
BY JEFF ALESSANDRELLI
The Puppy Still Hasn’t Opened Her Eyes
In New York it was in Berlin. In Berlin it was in Tokyo. In Tokyo it was in Amsterdam. In Amsterdam it was in Melbourne. In Melbourne in Prague, in Prague in Marfa, in Marfa in Mendocino, in Mendocino in New York. Quicksand’s solidity, our restlessness was determined only by our ability to identify a future that derived from our inaccurate understanding of the past. (The granite colonnades we’re leaning against are slathered with mud and encased in Jell-O, swaying in the spring breeze.) Despair is believing tomorrow will be exactly the same as today, which was exactly the same as yesterday, which was no more than a bird call heard precise and clear above the city street, then left unanswered in the midst of rush hour. In Guadalajara our therapists had prescribed an early bedtime and a gratitude journal; in Victoria they had advocated for finding our “social genius” within the maelstrom, taking the time to stay up late, celebrate. One has to figure out who they don’t want to be in Durango by being that unwanted person in Ashland and there in Vienna we interstice, arms outstretched at our sides, fingernails clipped, shirts pressed but left untucked. (The granite colonnades we’re pressing hard against are shaking with the vibrations of the winter squall, moisture of another summer tempest.)
from “Be Yer Own Hitman (Deathsounds/Lovesongs)”
Your lover
Gave birth
To a flower
That lived just long
Enough to end
Up at the foot
Of someone
Else’s grave.
After the funeral
I blogged
For miles
And miles,
Too tired
To slow
Down.
Nothing worth
Mentioning now,
Of course. I hate cars
But love gloveboxes.
I think they’re immortal,
If only
Because
One never actually finds
A pair of gloves in them.
Anyway—the term customer care
Has such a lovely
Scrum to it!
When I worked
At the call center
The phone leaked
Yells and shouts
At a premium
And none of us
Ever raised
Our collective
Corporate-funded voice.
While employed there
I saw the best minds of my—
Ah, never-
Mind.
God’s glovebox.
Nevermind is still
The name of my favorite
Nirvana.
* * * *
Upon exiting the womb
My daughter’s
First word
Was the sentence
“I want
To be me
Like they are
them.”
She was a fruitless
Bird with a tongue
Like a live animal,
Animal madly careening the dark
Pavement for a grub
Actually nothing
More than a shred of rubber
Ripped from an old tire.
“I want
To be me
Like they are
Them.”
Was a bright blue
Day risibly startled
By the near-distant
Clouds of the coming storm.
* * * *
I could put a bullet
In my heart
Or a sunflower
In my hand
And today all is a battlefield
Of sunflowers,
Battlefield able to shout
Without having a mouth.
When did I forget
How to fly?
I didn’t, I didn’t, I won’t.
Where the river bends
Through the trees
I am waiting,
Breathless, grace.
Keep rowing past anyway,
Our stunned copse
Of eye contact
Its own glittering
Bouquet.
Nothing of the Month Club
Look me in the eyes when you stab me in the back Tara thought to herself, slamming back a 32-oz. bottle of Pepto Bismal, naked, absently staring at herself in the bathroom’s fluorescently-lit full length mirror, her bloated stomach a pot of fool’s gold, barren, pregnant with guel and bile. Belly button the size of a silver dollar. She felt fine she felt fine she felt fine.
* * * * *
Penelope typed how to fold a burrito so the filling doesn’t fall out into the invisible engine filled with quantifiable numerical codes analytically transformed into linguistically readable searches and
how to fold a burrito so the feeling doesn’t fall out appeared on the screen instead. Penelope scrutinized her finding, decided burritos were none of her business. Outside the library’s computer lab the world was filled with shapes and colors constantly rising and falling in size, stature. The expression on Penelope’s face might best be described as glowful. She still needed to go to the market. She needed to make salsa.
Nothing of the Month Club
Studying the bones in a blade of grass, squirms in a cube of ice, Alan’s finally begun the major work necessary to finish his novella I’m a Man of Few Words, None of Them About Myself. He’s resigned himself to the cold storage world of America, everhard. He’s committed himself to a constant erection of the heart, evertaut.
Living in the moment before dying into the past, living in the moment before dying into the past, living in the moments.
The director of the literary non-profit Fonograf Ed., Jeff Alessandrelli is most recently the author of the poetry collection Fur Not Light.
