The Jivin' Ladybug

Home | Submit! | CENTRAL DIRECTORY | Will Alexander | Bernard Bador | James Beach | Gregg Biglieri | J.J. Blickstein | Alan Britt | Luis Omar Cáceres | David Capps | J. David Capps | Catullus | Aimé Césaire | Lily Cho | Ken Cormier | Clayton Eshleman | Jared Demick | Jared Demick Translations | Gordon Fraser | Victoria Ganim | Ricky Garni | Joe Giglio | Joe Giglio Visual Art | Oliverio Girondo | Howard Good | Jessica Grim | Josepha Gutelius | Leigh Herrick | Paige Hill | D. Michael Jones | Jean Jones | Pierre Joris | Pat Lawrence | Heller Levinson | Heller Levinson, Joe Giglio & Sedric Choukroun | Michael Main | Martial | Chantelle Messier | Hayley Mollmann/Poesytron 575 | Urayoán Noel | Carol Novack & Sheila E. Murphy | John Olson | Luis Palés Matos | Adrian Paulsen | Peruvian Poetry | Alejandra Pizarnik | Jeremy Pilapil | Andrew Roberts | Anthony Seidman | Ognjen Smiljanic | Felino Soriano | Ray Succre | Anne Tardos | Edwin Torres | Renee Wagemans | INTERVIEWS | Clayton Eshleman Interview | Interview with the Ladybug | Joe Giglio Interview | Pierre Joris Interview | Heller Levinson Interview | John Olson Interview | Ulf Stolterfoht Conversation | Keith & Rosmarie Waldrop Interview | BOOK REVIEWS | BOOK REVIEWS 2 | A "Poemic" | Exquisite Corpuscle | Collaborative Poem | 5 Poets You Must Read | Surrealist Tsunami Haiku Bombs! | Merce Cunningham Tribute | Cho/Demick Poem-Jam

Andrew Roberts

She Looks After You

 

What to do with nothing. What to do with mercy but give it a goddess and sell it as statuettes on the street. From the river the afflicted send monkeys with food money. They wait out winter in riverboats, watch bodies float by, watch the wind fire bullets of ice into pilings and trees. No birds is a bad sign. Jet engines overhead instead, angry throats masked in cloud. Perhaps they’ve dropped food in the dark. It parachutes into the river, the idea of it. The goddess in the river too, dragging it like grace upstream to the docks. All the monkeys wailing at the gunwales. All the hands holding poles into the night, certain it’s their own she will take hold of and weep.

 

 

Telegrams. In the Dark.

 

Goodbye failed dreams. In which the inspectors. Are never satisfied. O toothy clipboards. And forceps. O pinching. Probing. Come. Snake your cameras in. My canals and cochlea. Brace open the eyelids. I wake. Angry. At the spring rustle of life. The mad sun. Grinding into view. Aching to burn holes. In us. In our frantic rodents. O angry kinglets. Sharpening your beaks. On laurel branches. Who shall you like. To peck to death? No reason. To hurry. Two beagles. On ropes. Yarded. Digging a pit. They want. It to be over. A truck. On the street. Has an angry heart. Little man pumping. The pedals. Pounding. The wheel. He’s going. Nowhere. He’s taking. Nothing. With him.

 

 

Supernova

 

Tonight the birth of snow, a dream so deep we touch the very other edge. You are the white bird there on a branch hanging over. You, a bright figment of accumulated flakes. I reach to touch, thinking of lips. Dark tongue on tongue. I kiss a breath-hole through the drifts and your distant dead song tunnels in. Blue notes against the brights of my eyes. The heft of long hours under soft blankets of sleep under blankets of black stars. To wake means to gently snuff out or explode. I am gathering white walls about me. I am drawing you in like a throat with the rough idea of song.

The Jivin' Ladybug- A Skewered Journal of the Arts
 
All rights for materials presented on The Jivin' Ladybug belong to the artists. All materials are for non-commercial and / or educational use only.