11.7.25

Five Poems by Glenn Bach

from Atlas


the triumph of the idea

that breaks the water



something useful: do the houses

touch for cities building up



Mulholland and disintegration

in greater detail / in our collective memory

of Los Angeles who occupies

a central place



do the trees provide the shade

we need



do the garden shadow homes become



do the mockingbird / is singing



severe

like a stone in the sea as the story

takes a turn: disaster looms large

disaster be free

 

 

 

+++++

 

 

 

and is quiet at night.



The first to be discovered

Mandalay: within the anticline

the sand units pinch out



but you don’t)

can walk past them along the

beautiful empty beach is a short walk

the terrain save for berms

and dunes at shoreline



freezes occur

rarely (signs say you need



have a view of the ocean

because of the dunes

several littered items and evidence

of last night’s parties

(and less private) the talk

was on bats



and the sand so clean.

 

 

 

+++++

 

 

 

For light and by bark. After

native shade for the thorns for the

dappled road. Consider the soil



or any plant that suffers

from stress. With rays of lavender

and yellow centers. Disorder



to keep in mind. In bloom

growing white woodland

pictured on a soft-focus

background. Starved or side-



flowering. With staking a rich

backdrop to shorter plantings

in the dappled shade



by thick rhizomes. Like yarrow

and anise hyssop near



stems to the ground. Sets

of true leaves work the soil

down. New growth is the signal



to keep the rooting stem. Deepens

to bronze. To seed. To tufts

by the wind dispersed.

 

 

 

+++++

 

 

 

Sand-borne down foothills of wool those great days of sheep.


The hungry maw of that canyon clay of the ground. Artesian

wells in this village cascade of drought or true spirit.


A striking appearance from the sea. In the shape of good

words and wishes for the greater part of the year.


Plenty to brag of surprises by our city’s land through miles

of beach fronting. Who swelters in the dry atmosphere

of the West. Post littoral striking in a city on its fringe.


Barring an exceptional year of a cruel frost. Edge of edges

in diagonal evidence of the community’s proof of railways.


Reach for the pure air when survivors mute of some intimacy.


Newly wed and the nearly dead upon these parcels of change.


The shore fringed with a haze the only break in the vista.

 

 

 

+++++

 

 

 

aground) of fill and paved

thick with piers

in a contested space like the coast

otherwise be swept out

or surfacing beneath



the incoming

ice rapidly melting. The surest sign

to mirror the outline

of the island (there are



so many dead trees). To invest

in shorelines

that embrace the tides




Glenn Bach

6.7.25

Four Poems by Mark Young

They signed both documents

 

I like to eat either chicken or beef.

Neither is grammatically correct.

Which of those fur coats is yours?

 

This homemade chicken liver pâté

is a real hit. The mink style is often

associated with Hollywood. Mari-

 

lyn Monroe adored wearing real fur

coats, but wearing vintage fur can

be controversial. Consider getting a

 

coat in nutria (Myocastor coypus Mo-

lina), made from the fur of an intro-

duced noxious pest that is destroying

 

thousands of acres of southern US

wetlands. Have you asked about

the fur coat scam out of the trunk of

 

a BMW? Pâté is a French terrine of

seasoned ground meat. Some see it

as a way to honor the animal. Others

 

find it unethical & fill their capsule

cosy wardrobe with the new faux fur

line. Just $734, but often out of stock.

 

 

 

The beguine begins

 

In his lonely room

he sings the songs

of Cole Porter to

the wall. 24/7 in the

modern tongue, in

the old, night & day.

 

 

 

Promenade

 

oblivious to          he walked

       absorbing

fragments      aspects of

 the street  sk  stars  y

             without pause

     without pausing to

look                       listen

           content

    to take everything in

                  osmotically

   potsherds        to be

    putbacktogetheragain

later        into            shapes

          they never were

 

 

 

A line from Samuel R. Delany

 

There is a  link between societal cri-

sis situations & belief in conspiracy

theories. Stresses in the earth's outer

layer push the sides of the fault line

 

together. Sensory overload is real.

It's a subject they kept on talking

about, considering it an area that

shouldn't be neglected. Believing in

 

something paranormal is no longer

rare, if it ever was. Radio silence can

trigger insecurity; there is no articu-

late resonance. The one escape, the

 

populist belief that only politicians

still use it to mock & dismiss allega-

tions against them & draw attention

away from the inner corners of their

 

eyes. We mere mortals use a brown eye-

liner that blends in much better with skin.

The politician, however, who feels loss

more profoundly than we experience an

 

equal gain, settles only for an ultra creamy,

dual-ended, & intense pigment gel-feel hybrid

eyeliner pencil that delivers 24hr smooth,

smudge-proof wear, in just one stroke.

22.6.25

Two Poems by Joshua Martin

Dry and Simultaneously Entombed in Gnawed Saltwater
 
Haven blast microbe punctuation marks watching
magnifying glass pencil sharpener butterflies
that elongated a horizon shaded like a hollowed
out stigmata pore. Clothespin oceans? Any
condensation in an early morning blooming as
incongruous as an initiation. Invitation to a tail-
spin beheading cockroach ceiling. Fingers span
the anorexic marble library nostalgia grottoes.
A gutter. Sensational gothic pebbles and shells
beyond expectation entities.
 
Wired, insecure, a storage shelter parking ticket
offering a blushing circular obsession to an over-
zealous toothache conference. Are there
walls kissing our cocoon landscapes? Hoof? A
ruined map. A kangaroo wandering the implanted
countryside seeking plasticine funhouse typos. A
dinosaur toxin. A latent ceremonial slug unexpect-
edly disenchanted. Dusty guile and forlorn states
of vegetative shrinking. A lost corner. A beatnik
cufflink superstition.
 
Specialized roundabouts smell like formal
soft drinks. Blurry apartment attractions
frequently marginal. Planets full of lint
and liver and implicit amoral synchronicity.
 
Above. Dressed to appeal to the grandeur of an
unfortunate examination. Frustration grasshopper
puzzle box resembling a clarinet tissue. Hokum.
Arrows bend and retreat and germinate.
Immunized candy duels. Wizened in the
geometric binocular civilization reduction.
Bland classicism. According to the factory
permutation theory all wilderness spectacles
culminate in conspiracy theories.
 
Exploration oddities. Dime factors of straining
consumerism. We are an implosion awaiting
clasping nourishment. Existence as a stroll.
Numbered insincerity constellation. Magnetic
hark. Bellowing hallucination. Our membranes
thirst. Our tangled eyelashes coming apart at
the pedestals. Tongue roots teetering. Arachnid
erasure. A tasteless perfume colliding with
dissenting rainforest missionaries. Among
burials. Caskets for days. The dawn of all
our horseshoe grotesqueries.
 
A voice, like an orgasm, displayed beneath
a subtle Orwellian boardgame. Lopsided
miracles exempt from stuffy academic cliffs.
Jagged and rustling and evading our context.
Like a fossil of thoughtless exposition. With-
out swearing allegiance to a literary depart-
ment store. Our catalogues of sleeping.
 

Slant Tones Encased in Banging Plaques
 
Fungus tips softy excavated enumeration
blocks of happenstance laboratory tumors
sturdy and justifiably deserted though quartz-
like in balmy bred historic strangulation
vacuums. An accountant strains finely
edged comatose arrogance while a mirroring
stammer punished charmed semblances of
cockroach buckets. Adroit, an adverse fusion
of linguistic unit structures scrawling acidic
teeth aftershocks. Scrub, nascent fields of
meditative garage syndromes. Inlet, an
eyebrow manifesto gorge? Circled in a rib
of meadow provocation volumes.
 
Lone and chomping fields. Demonic soap
opera shields whining Geraldine Chaplin
chilled spine retreats. What, another line of
callus avoidances? Might repeat leaning
allowance herbs stuck yet dancing fandangos
in concerning velvet downpours. Or curtsey
handshakes. At noon, the butter sculpture
scapegoat renders personification self-evident
as in a piano on stilts being dragged through
crystalized bathhouses. It might wither as
in a Thursday.
 
Which that said a thunderous northwest
itch bared and bloody stalking raging
obstructions? Well, turned, loaned a
cape on a holiday barricade lump shed.
Pebbles arguing fragments la dolce vita
campground tactile fingerprints.
 
All heave and little shrieking mentions,
vastly the nape of jingle bell neck tattoo
dice. Tiny gasoline engulfed echoing
appliances superseding craggy melons
of virtuous monopoly vanilla. Kinky robes
pet limbless beet assemblage. To a vertical
flute. Toward reduced liver painting. It
has a point. It has an invisible kernel twirl.
Let if throb or present padlock trails to
Kika Markham turquoise moonbeams
straddling tadpole violins. Unjust. Withheld.
An apparent fudge lurking keyhole.
 
Mightn’t the farthest spraining proverb
offer dialectical shrimp to distracted twins
blindingly pointillistic in stamina? Present
the lotion to the gopher sentence. Tanta-
mount to matted weather lungs humping
James Whale observation desks. Pome-
ranian jean shorts stoop to define declining
cultural mumbling. Pardon the glowing whis-
key clavicle mermaid intelligentsia. Rodent
to the stars. If found, return to sugar free
immaculate hand lotion station. A certain
rocking division might contain a flicker of
laundry turntables.
 
Sniff. Sniff. Beyond an egg, a sludgy and
formulaic tendency filling heated seat
silicon rodent debacle. Desk has hopped
and forgotten the rattling tug-of-war at the
heart of potato tempered fibers. Disappear-
ed fractions. The case of the hunted parallel
slaughterer of ping pong yardsticks. Dresser
drawer, a lacking. The damned fishing pole
utters calibrator armistice. A jealous seal
off to the races. In the slowly gesturing
midsection, questions link Jacques Rivette
durational light sockets to blurred clumps
of atmospheric spoons. Sing, whiplash unto
disposable improvisations. Cloaked in degre-
es of repellent garbage disposal wires.
 
Still and wherein, bloody signification gloom
tied to the ersatz doorknob jubilee headset
speaking toward a sandwich habit. Bad or
simply the birth of a defect?