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Michelle Greenblatt is a student at Florida Atlantic University and is the new co-poetry editor of "mprsnd".  Her first book brain:storm, will go to press at the beginning of December (Anabasis Press).  She has been published or will be published in these magazines this year: AUGHT, Zafusy, BlazeVOX, X-stream, Word for/ Word, Admit Two, Haggard & Halloo, elimae, The Anemone Sidecar, LitVision, Generator Press, Unlikely Stories, Big Bridge, and Frank's Home.  Her third chapbook (X-press(ed)) will appear in December as well. Michelle will be spotlighted in the February/March 2006 issue of 63 Channels.






taken with the photographic eye

of electric light in the house while none

other than my body paints along the bare bedroom

            walls—can be decoded?  when the electronic mind wraps

itself around the desiccated                                wall and its gentle acres

with women in half-broken jars   clumped with loam

                        and split-open rock knobbed acres of angel-shaped

semen-scars falter in spat blood; she calculates

                                                                            each sun, dry

clicks of the metronome count

each second.  in her dark creature-headed

       room a person followed by blind babies with twigs

  for thighs makes a noose my face cloaked in sour clouds while my desire

                        moves across the water lilies which move across the sand and through

a sluice of rain, hungry,

                                     hungry, my little sister; how naked you must have been…




somnolent morning stalks the people who rise

            with the landscape meant

      for climbing            we meet at the oblique road

where the two-tone

sun (which died after the horizons fell) upraised

at sulfurous lunarscapes.

dream-twisted            apparitions                   ring orange-heads at Eden’s point

where the new moon curves pristine-smoothly     

                                                palpable as our

origin, obdurate as the wind-clouds

toughened by suffering;                                   preserved on a set course and briskly

devoured after obeying orders,

torpid warning            s                       machine gun silences                       appalling witness’






and martyred ready to hone their edges stemless fulcrum empties

                                                                                    its face into the jouncing mirror

sister, my mind runs with you, liquid

down a drain,               I can taste the tin      

of the lid we lick though nobody looks up or bothers to answer

me—it is no lake to drown in! my silver sister, sliver of the sunset/ twisting toward

            a metal city/ easily picked up by a loose

                                                            flap of eyelid, just as we say every chance circumstance is caused by accident, the honey pours knocked loose by a jerking

elbow, arms flailing in the sky for balance

            making circles in the nighttime air

surging out to the center—given that I remember rhyme

                        on this too white                                  sheet where I throw my luggage at

the only intact tree, shrunk to abnormal size, and






flickering towards exclamation no more garden no more south


up towards capped white hair the new myth of origins swollen claws that

murder the death sentence smooth and curved

as a comma

                                                                                    the words are pure of the forest

no sentence find its knot single and exact slabs of moonbeams but

                                    madtalk is madtalk says the roof and crumbles into a ball

of stone.  non-measurement is key.  begin with puddles

full of children.  stand between

two musicians.  operate on history.  (no answer?)  find

three tight human nature streams                                     with interposing eyes.  

and take






to the telling of it: wars, etcetera (someone is always saying) stop turning

the impossible around image

is no longer

                                                            seen symmetrically or as

halves of wholes, a well-known definition of poetry

is taken

           and eaten             with pennies   a festive statement (madtalk is

madtalk) made with Plexiglas hinges     larvae tied to the teeth    one can

                        barely discern the poem from the adjectives curved as commas

smooth as dreams     naked as eyeballs   

he says his brain registers

            the money that drops in with the magnifying glass come

close or run away; I’ll wash the dirt.  I fear you and I am cold.  I will give

you back your

            ring.  I will eject

myself from my eyes in the matrixed nothingness which pours forth, stringy,

from your four fingers.




human inertia

over field of


nature, during


finding they lack

manpower learn
there must be [synthetic]

replacements of both fruit

and trees—black coal


circle opener water lotus


man going forward going

at early ending

of winter

dangerous to leave the eyes

[wet] which have

been written about

watch carefully

and erase.   stagnate the

earth. keep

writing.  keep writing.

I will pull you by

your stems underwater.  I will

bury you by your hair.




through elegant houses wild roses

stalk ardent cherries gasoline covers

me/ medication covers me, psyche-not

fractures the ratio of the snarled thicket’s

total sacrifice.  a gutted mirror hurls its

heart at (“she was careful walking) the sweet

stench of air (“but she froze) when his head

slipped—and though he was full of sun,

it seemed (and the flux was quite

insistent”) he had sung her that curdy

melody which jutted her thighs round

jagged cliffs—this against the onslaught

of stories with each shudder, breath, each

reddrench, the yielding ripeness of human

fruit (and she says “yes” and she says “i do”)—

even when they discussed a certain saint

in the sullen light still lays all ways to waste  




don’t muffle my please don’t break

it sounds for now just feather the half-full


hole with strokes for a blue woman knocking

on my document just down that hot


alley where it was a sure cure

for brightness; by the gate the bronze snake


lies with blade inert as stagnant lake, zinc-white

eyeballs singing prayers, singing prayers,


and pliable still as far as eggshells are concerned,

knifelike, he flings glass and laughs


at the moon-like shadows twisting on the treeline

flopping the ciliated rhythm on its belly and grinning


something shiveringly delicious; when we stood

and thought about the nothings that light felt


up at sunrise…maybe the world, building

a building beginning at the singular smile at the slit


corner of your left eye, that is: winter approaches:

it was in every winter, always, that hideous


answer (which I could not engrave for the prison

ward’s slippery company and the inmates’ lovely


songs.  circling around the reckless duty was the fat

voice whispering loud applause and soothing moans.





copyright © Michelle Greenblatt