Tuesday, January 31, 2017

(The) Abashed by Evan Kennedy

Danger from others provoked
a change in my internal
law. I was no flawed creature,
but the unpersuaded
sure made their case
with their brutality.
They tied me to a fence, began
thrashing the life out of me.
If the meek deserve
to jubilee, in what bodies
are we to defend our selves
and supple registers
of bonum. It’s time to confess
I was never cruising for
this bruising but maybe
just cruising
toward a rapid intercession
of effervescent affection
that could gift a beneficent
fever among us.
                         Angels arrived to inhospitality,
                         and I hear my body still groan in that aftermath.


am my desire. Grew up a screw-up
but bucked up a fuck-up,
each thing I took into my nine holes
was rotting, obviously. What perils
when asleep, when en route,
in the sea, in the wilderness
somehow I made it through.
When beside myself, I spotted
an antidote toward
a reversal in all places my biology
doomed me.
True witness was clarified
by my thighs, chest, and throat. To
quote that it’s flesh and it’s not—

Now from my
1394 Utah Street room,
a couple of blocks away,
a strangers’ elegy sinks toward
Earth. To keep watch of community
beyond a shame that stills me—
We’ve been put outside
the populace to offset their enmity.


Singing on my way back to
Assisi a sissy, I’m thrown into a ditch.
It’s my bitch of a knee failing me 
after so much cycling that groans
as though flesh has worthy feeling.
These thieves think
I’m a rich troubadour, despite
my nasal whine and valedictory hymn—
the one about poverty, or maybe
I am that bad of a mumbler?
Since I’m not much of
a stumbler, it’s a whim to be made
inert through violence cops not long ago
would round up the likes of me
along Market Street so thanks, men,
for making this human a humble
and stilled thing, alive only
unto your forces. Earth will be
a swallower of your corpses.


Made of dirt, would I know what
dirt tastes like. While I was cycling,
the earth and I
exceeded living bodies’ partitions.
Wishing that the strewn parts of
you long gone ones
would reassemble in a gust
of florescence and soundtracks,
I promise my legs can brace
for any supple clamor.
If the dead all rise age thirty,
at twenty-nine,
still ahead is my finest glamour.
Thus I became a hammer
to darkest anti-matter. Thus
I became a ticking time bomb
of kingdom expectation in
my gray hoodie and sharp teeth.

Wednesday, January 18, 2017

The rain this morning falls   
on the last of the snow 

and will wash it away. I can smell   
the grass again, and the torn leaves 

being eased down into the mud.   
The few loves I’ve been allowed 

to keep are still sleeping 
on the West Coast. Here in Virginia 

I walk across the fields with only   
a few young cows for company. 

Big-boned and shy, 
they are like girls I remember 

from junior high, who never   
spoke, who kept their heads 

lowered and their arms crossed against   
their new breasts. Those girls 

are nearly forty now. Like me,   
they must sometimes stand 

at a window late at night, looking out   
on a silent backyard, at one 

rusting lawn chair and the sheer walls   
of other people’s houses. 

They must lie down some afternoons   
and cry hard for whoever used 

to make them happiest,   
and wonder how their lives 

have carried them 
this far without ever once 

explaining anything. I don’t know   
why I’m walking out here 

with my coat darkening 
and my boots sinking in, coming up 

with a mild sucking sound   
I like to hear. I don’t care 

where those girls are now.   
Whatever they’ve made of it 

they can have. Today I want   
to resolve nothing. 

I only want to walk 
a little longer in the cold 

blessing of the rain,   
and lift my face to it.

Kim Addonizio