CONJUNCTIONS: A Web Exclusive

Four Poems Jack Christian

Gothic Peoples Institute And were you cold last night And in dreams somewhat amphibian. Is she sometimes a coldfront. What do the gestures mean If they aren’t the same as other gestures. What when their hands have gotten past each other. Has this one started a hiccup. Has he ridden a four-wheeler. Or, were the apples imported maybe. Did the leaves change more Or again. And was the creek turned by hoofprints. If this was an inside what would it look like. If they rubbed here would they prize vision so much. If not, where to swim to. Where to go round again. How to paddle there. Is it a bog. What do you suggest. What if you washed up. What if she aged years in seconds. What makes him cringe then. What causes laughing fits And have you practiced. And were they mountains. Is that Monadnock And Seven Sisters there. Did the preparation mature them well. Were they worn. Were they pants. What found he was fossilized. Did it wrinkle him. Did the things he said resemble sculpted stone. What about a woodcut. How about an airplane With a lawnmower on its wing. How about that. If a thing is loved enough, does it equally experience time lapse. And when does love get lied to. When appropriate for singing about. Does it build in the manner you accumulate. Is it held by vacancy And noticeably troubled by them. Would they prefer another choice. Which would she on a nametag. What about a tar patch. Which keeps one later. Which more easily taken for confidence Which for anarchy. What about an uppermost part. What about on a roadtrip. What, for the sake of confusion. And do our feet turn in the shape of hallelujah. Do the prayers travel well. Are they like fruitcake In any case, how do they meander. Or is it we’d better fling them. Are those insightful to hear about or just kind of some private thoughts. Like noodles then. Discernable in darkness. How hokey do we become. And how many do we commemorate. Did she bring-it-on then. And those by circumlocution then. Or, gathered otherwise. Can you draw it. Can he drive it. Was it seen like our own hand. And how was the ceremony. Did society-folk attend. Did moons rise in storefronts. Were they a club With membership dwindling. Could any of them be danced to. Would it describe as seasonal. Would it present standardly. Were they a bird’s nest. Was it a church-on-wheels. March with Wounded Hound In the circle I made the dog move           made pear trees move And this was good to me if it was If a piling-on if a pear tree If all else well spring to you A ritual walk then a spring ritual           a circle to anybody                    and a tail to you and a dog Wisteria and twila and an airplane Then an airplane then a palm frond           a walk shape My ritual was azaleas bloomed           crocus bloomed Good Tuesday and all to anybody Or more than anything something pear           made of dog then of scenery Widespread, Plausible We call it Total Animation. We who are tracking an owl just now and are kneedeep and speaking of a thing to know of poplar trees and of the pebble of trees. And who do this of our overflowance and despite misgiving, and whatever discomfort, and whatever abrasion. And we never see it. And are only about to— held where a thing that never happens hasn’t yet. And whatever our making our heads are as if leaves burst from them in a day and better than that. In a Meadow on a Beam at the end we would begin again because there are instances wherein a notch            is a wide-mile and a best-self and could run-on-over or be folded in a backseat            then covered in tied flies                        and later be a bowl but be for you who resemble a spot of sun and also a motion            whose motion is over-there like to the victor go the things we jinx by talking about            and then they happen anyway out where we pushed all the weeds down and where the weather approaches aesthetic necessity            and our reason with no holes                        floats seven feet down the creek That’s when our great speckled      reveals itself and comes full-on in a ghost-step Jack Christian is the author of the chapbook Let’s Collaborate from Magic Helicopter Press. His poems have appeared recently in Drunken Boat, Sixth Finch, Cimarron Review, and notnostrums. He is from Richmond, Virginia, and lives now in Northampton, Massachusetts. □