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Mary Kasimor


Voiced Epic

sing a song of cows issuing a manifesto
the line prompts idiocy. the eye doctor
sees all & sez we learn to see. from birth
the bones rattle a death confinement. in
the forests grass stalks the night a forgotten
owl blind in flight navigates to northwest
in the eye of a needle. the red thread
twists the blood & bags the thumbs.
usually a peaceful god falls in pieces
then a piercing light in pursuit of literature
the phony night. honey voiced the dogs
& locked doors the hammer of god
prompts the epic. on friday at 9:00
between volkswagens & vitamin C
equals an eternity of measured plastic
notes. of hypnotism from. the voice.


Manila Folders

To the east I rise, bald & thin skinned
eating aspirin:
heart bound.

Why fast food steals the night is
a chronicle of possible tasks.

It’s not sugar but slow divinity the Chinese
will talk & then god speaks.

There’s no spit like champagne when
I eat underwater lips.
It was a northwest stream pushing me on.
Seaward bound, also sleeplessness burned the candle.

I moved shadows of adjustment
& anonymous stock market tips.

I was playing with cyborgs.

Nothing brave happened, but the accused
final words were poetry.
In terror they sit among the statements.

Facts are bananas or manila folders.

There is love in numbers.
There is love among the spiders.

There is love in all cell phones.

The columnist spoke in straight lines.
There are misquoted shadows in the land
of murder, bordered by sunsets.


In Bohemian Woodcuts


in bohemian other worlds where the snow comes

through the crevices of our skin

in torn down neighborhoods

we put our plastic bodies in the sun


we have sworn ourselves to the ravages of art

in our bohemian bloodlines

we shut ourselves outside the world


the bees are happy monsters

the sun churns us out like butter

our bones smell like blood


in the woodcuts we are descendents of deer

& feral smells there was no memory

in this we cleaned our houses of ourselves

we have burned our bodies


my love is in the shape of water & falls off rocks

in painful recovery

this is a revolution of a broken country

& pieces of blue the warp of strings changes

the fire on the canvas


we fill the planets with what we find

our bodies wearing angels dying from the light

darkness from the stones in fires we find ourselves

cymbals clashing in the catgut wails of violins


From Painting I

There is a ritual to being lost
I light the candles
I chase secrets within myself

I will eat raspberries & lose myself in mythic fingers

I should have been an angel with a flaming heart

There was nothing here when I announced my goddess form
My holiness got in the way of stained glass manifestations
Of fate until I broke

Sexuality is depicted as a penis hidden in the painting

They told us nothing

The earth’s lushness is a shopping mall & an 18 screen movie theater
I am the goddess of none
Of mutated seeds & stock market quotes

Quiet bombs
snoring truths

& perfect beauty

I am the goddess of self-absorbed prisons
In a theater of clowns
We are here with incomplete sentences

Our unconscious descent sprang from my mind
In the shapes of billions of monkeys




Mary Kasimor has been published in many online and print journals, including Otoliths, MIPOesias, Moria, Fact-Simile, GutCult,Cannot Exist, Eccolinguistics, and Reconfigurations, and Big Bridge among others. She recently won the Merida Poetry Fellowship that was awarded by the US Poets in Mexico. She has two books published: & cruel red (Otoliths) and silk string arias (BlazeVox Books). Contact author.

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