Fortunes we’d like to see

May 10, 2011 § Leave a comment


May 7, 2011 § Leave a comment

By Jeff Barnes

I want you
with the cast dovetail in your mouth,
perfect teeth, chain and crooked nose
below black lashes and Ionic falls
to tell me something, anything
of interest. Because your beauty interests
me. Lacquered your words so I can see
myself reflecting in you, Thank you,
as you speak about whatever it is your saying
now. It’s all softening. There are a thousand yous;
fingers, blinking, from straight on to slightly off
center. Additions for the one you-image stored on the backs of
my eyelids, red and black and white add blue,
like battery operated rose petals or something equally used
to suggest my enduring fancy
struck: and I still have no clue what you’re saying,
but you’re smiling, which makes me smile
on the outside. This is all I need from you.
You are mine forever. You will exist in my
world as the thousand other yous do
doing what you always do. Softening.
A steppingstone kiosk leading to the next you
and the next you may very well be the way back to you.
Who knows.

Fortunes we’d like to see

May 7, 2011 § Leave a comment

Fortunes we'd like to see, Windowed, The only way out is in.


April 27, 2011 § Leave a comment

By: Bendi Barrett

What would Tom Ford do

or what’s he up to? Does he sleep
on three thousand thread count sheets

and dream of his teeth falling out
like I do? Wake up in the night clutching,

like I do, a tendril of terror so hot
he can’t let it go

like a live wire forcing the fist shut.

Fortunes we’d like to see

April 26, 2011 § Leave a comment

Fortunes we’d like to see

April 20, 2011 § Leave a comment

Speak friend to enter


April 18, 2011 § Leave a comment

By Jeff Barnes

I cleared a circle from the rows of corn so we could lie
and watch the crows overhead cut between power lines,
across the see-through clouds, blue sky and building moon.

How can something be so ugly and beautiful all at the same time,
you asked of the lines. The birds disappeared. By the time the moon
replaced the clouds’ white with its translation, I’d pulled enough

wood from the lot—our fire was catching—taking my oxygen
to grow its own shoots of light and warmth. Pointing, you asked
if you’d spotted a planet or a star, said you had to be sure,

that you didn’t want to jinx your wish. Not knowing, I wished for you:
I wish for _______ to be happy. That was the best I could do. Now, this August,
as the new rows flex with September wind, my wish has finally come true.

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