Celebrating National Poetry Month, Thru Magazine will publish poems every Friday in April. Commencing the commemoration of the is Jen Scholten.
Prerequithoughts: an ongoing, ever-expanding collection of poems.
I.
Pipe dreams
— man,
of me
of us
roving
desert hills,
chilling
mountaintops
with
stares that
stop them
dead;
winds
dreading
us.
Can’t
we figure
in
how the
masters
make it,
making dough
from scrolling
sonnets
or
collecting
shadows
through
electric
eyes?
What
a gas
it is
to be
a
dreamer
in a
time
where
true-dreams
be
more than
many
as
steadily
nightmares
incline.
II.
Melancholia;
the
memory
of that
watery
wood.
That shot
where
you
sink yourself
in — all
breasts &
silver-skin,
elemented
against a wayward lawn.
Rebellion,
I guess
is what that is —
against
an entire species;
spawning
sentients
of a
lamenting
god.
Yours
regrets
us,
and god —
he should.
But —
what good
will it
do
for us
not to
forget that
for a while.
We still
have
to be
here.
But still —
that doesn’t
recluse
daydreams
of
foreversleep
of
weeping or
soulscreams
from
the forest
floor.
No —
when this
dark,
dark engine
finds its
locomotion
behind
our hearts
door
we have
never,
ever
set foot
on any
piece —
of what
it is
we believe
exists
beneath
our
feet.
III.
Kept
winding in
between
portal worlds,
thinking
on how
you’d
adorn me
with my words
like tattooed,
binding
pairs
of limbs.
Like a pig
laying there
belly out,
writhing against them.
Own
a shifting
jewelry.
Know —
with the seasons
old
becomes it’s
new —
and truest now
is
less so.
IV.
In our
witching hour
you say
one of your mothers
gave her
cover up,
which really
never is
of a woman
wishing a grand
child into existence.
On that
waking bend
of breath
I am mouth
deep,
dreaming again of
a woman
we’ve never met,
sharing our sex
like a gift.
And either dream,
no matter which real
we could
so marry
for a time.
