one listens to poetry, it’s true.
Although it makes up a non-synthetic impulse
in each dynamic of revelation.
Can’t tell which is which
in the shape we have just taken.
We’re kobolds of the mythic universe.
We inhabit some eternity
a slush pile
aside from most
We’re not beautiful or even good
but we live out of reach
in the phase-out of tomorrow
of the tomorrow after that.
Sometimes you hear us
sometimes you don’t.
Nothing ever happens here,
the illusion of the ozone layer
comes apart together with the ozone layer.
Biotransformation of unrest.
you, the reader, as factors of such
If only there was an
one listens to poetry – in reference to
Thing Language, by Jack Spicer
If only there was an echo – in reference to Jonah,
by Marin Sorescu
A Victory for the Sultan and the Queen of Spades
In the dream the man stood in a grove
with his palms facing outward,
showing the way, blue as if he’d dipped them in blue ink.
Smoke billowed up behind him. Perhaps mist.
Something had been burning,
or we were being engulfed in a cloud.
He said, The City’s come to take the place of nature–
nature as disorder.
All depth bent in. High density of the near and contiguous.
Half the time formless, as if nobody
can reach it,
the other blocked by objects in the dark
like an old music box.
What if we lived
in a round night recalled
over a distant city,
if what we call
of days or hours, mere segments
devised only to
break up duration, but of something similar to pixels,
produce an image,
or maybe of
like skin, whose
cells spontaneously generate new tissue.
Consider the music box.
It sits idle yet when you open it
it springs into life and sings its song.
We’d remember ourselves already
– in reference to Indivisible, by Laynie Browne
You can play a music piece so differently
it becomes a different piece.
Playing it backward
there’s a sense of being followed.
mezzotint>> transferring to aquatint
the squares on the
have many drawers.
like spherical umbrellas.
The sky above
you remain motionless.
What connection is there between things?
To the left you see the outline of a church.
The hand of a clock turned
away from the wall,
a few trees,
edging the forest
maybe, to the right.
The grey sky inbetween.
But why is there
a bellhop waiting on the stairs?
reminds you you bear gifts.
Daniel Nemo is the founder and editor of Exilé Sans Frontières – An Immigrant's Reactor For The Arts, an online literary magazine. His poetry has also appeared or is forthcoming in Dream Catcher, Brazos River Review, Off the Coast (as Daniel Reiss), Pennsylvania Literary Journal, Ascent Aspirations Magazine, and Assisi: An Online Journal of Arts & Letters. For more information, see www.danielnemo.com.