Friday, January 21, 2011

Feminaissance Blog Project: Amy King


Amy King

“…that baggy creature of unknown dimensions…”– Susan McCabe

In some countries, they eat dog
but not the cute ones for entertainment appeal.
Dance for me, darling.
Bring back the distilled syntax of the 20s to 2000s. I too have a handle
on the romantic glam of long drags off thin cigarette stems
and wartime starvation.
Do your own damn darning.
How the female is a hole no one wants to fall into. Land mime.

Afghanistan? Iraq Iran Pakistan?
Get lost or get with it. (This is a contemporary footnote.)
I’m remote on the sequestered continent,
walking, with pulleys, puppet soaked ground immune to warming icepoles.
Wet to the bone.

“Stein … began again and again.” –S.M.

She stands here ironing finally reaches
with distended knuckles
to agitate the violence of naming, a cauldron of flutters...

Cream on the counter distills, goes sour to a lake
of bacterial basics.
How does the breast destroy
the sex of food, how does a breast bring life to the fore?

Counter cream, this grammar tastes good, a serious scent akin to teeming.
That is the beginning: bloody sac on the verge of split into leakage.

No more raw yellow, only honeybees now, a baby,
furry mute amber with legs that join the pistol to winter’s sugar,
filaments to antlers, a scream into low dull want & wail.

“In other words… need not be a totalizing movement.” –S.M.

I lost track of the crepe before me, café dissolving
its sweet body full of brie tomato basil
halfway between stomach sack, mastication, jejunum, corpse suspension, animation.

In some places, a code for how to beat your wife
is tweaked and refined, debated via television:
no burns nor black bottle eyes if the withdrawal of sex.
She must fuck or harbor well-placed bruises
in the hues of Van Gogh. Splotched dark blues, bluing yellow purples.
Begins an amputation, the art of excision, the carving moon.

There are codes for arm and leg motion, Nylon words,
A sheerness to the way being overlooks the flesh of progress, and costs.
Your name here.

“It’s not about substitution. Can’t stand in the same river twice.” – S.M.

Crime hides on Spain’s rooftops. In the train stations I rarely occur.
If a body births from my body,
are the flesh the skull the tiny lips me?
How can I hold the present? With saliva and skin? Body rockets and ingestion sockets?

They have definition but shapes are indefinite.
In sexual integrity we lie
back against the thick and think
about tying our shoes, our arms burning brittle as we reach to watch
for someone to finish the laces.
I can’t split the intellect from sex, emotion from earthly enactment.
Dress name here.

“…with the sensuous—fig trees, the ocean, fish, almonds, sun, but also in the distance, a German ship.” –S.M.

The rain again, then love for sun at her 4 o’clock slant,
Then how we make love against the crust of us,
elbow skin and eating pie
that falls from tableau to floor, not our own
but the one we brush with iron and bristles.

Chap chap chap
work, chapter verse hands, chaps against legs that burn

With lesbian smile, the smile of that odor that
makes a senate floor wish more could be boxed
and stored with the unknown housed
leagues below Fort Knox ground. Simple excision for everyone
covets but untouches to become.

“We are not all gay in the same way.” – S.M.

There is such a thing as pie, fat filling
fruits exposed, sweet
Fingers dipping, laying at rest and decaying less than
the rate of taste, sweat, incest through table flies and Speedos or nightgowns.
Wormy apples in the background, the way she pounds her claim out desire is him.

Why the point of so many windows open
Laughter from the back through to women tabled
a moment, a figment of this is who we are while the rest of us are not them.

I am a bone in liquid chains, a link in the land we fight.
A very small pen.
I hold my lapis from the knees up,
the sex again, the sequence of up goes down in up on down
the hold, the heart, the pound, the sex of sequence
a whole less than then
Not going home, not knowing home, not knowing
Less than equals everything else, the absence of being
in a class with others present, position’s possession, amber suspension, a milking resident.

“Recently, I was at a dinner party; everyone was laughing and arguing.” – S.M.

What passes rooftops into Madrid’s large bowels
that I do not see from an American café,
a me and a you and the them
traverse, expunge, become the less-than equal-to not-us glued, the gaily whole.
The world erasing its own legs, us riding upsweep, the dust.

Under the stone bridge in the distance, everything
about me blurs fact with fiction,
a human camouflage that resembles any other

Bird with real wax bodice and snake-hair wings, which also has surely just passed
above a soft sound-bed
of honking horns, car alarms, and emergency sirens
amid lips sponging paper coffee cup rims.

Our eyes dart around this mini city
in the passage of a miniature horse, so small
he doesn’t know anything but
his hooves tromping on, where the next barrel of water will stand,
who reaches out, holds his name, handles his circle of shadow and shade.

Main street overlaps
the dimension of whispers we see the past through
photographs, 40 years, a hundred ago, whichever matters not.
Sitting atop a sliver of silver
from the vantage of the 20s refurbished stands
a blossoming tree, women's hats, an avenue of bonnets mistressed at first glance.
These imprints pour into us gently,
trombones and trumpets of the sight canal to funnel the soul’s central nervousness.

Your first assumption is something gone. Time escaped, beyond us.
Jazz to look around.
Maybe careful history, a row of spectators, the vantage of vintage,
is thought. The apparitional lesbian, the what else
am I not. The endless walk of the dog,
one foot in front of the other, the biting onslaught of a hetero-fuck.
She plays claim to do the next guy around, her very next dud-in-the-making.
She’s a public declaration of available, a power predictor, laying claim with her potential
as holy-graphic partner. So goes the verdict, the court jester.

“The feeling of exhaustion.” --S.M.

Girl in girl the way French never sounds
Real except painted air on concrete ceilings, a thong
heavy with cream purrs
You to merge with any old disembodied
voice, tired out moon panties
radical not on the streets alone
stilettos with him
about this family of relations habitual, walking and then down
those stairs, that part of conversation
that lingers after, passes over
front to back, teeth touching lightly the woman’s steps in color.

When I say conventional, man
must bring them to sense, blocked air lung
in the throat-choke song
that breathes phantasms woe
over Beauty’s stilettos who will no longer beat without
exhaustion. Time bears time out
in torrents of masks’ painted-over fortune. A lip line up
her nylon hose.
Where is that ebullient oyster,
the illegible sarcophagus that scrawls out
lines, the remaining corpus with painted-on nails, the hair-lip in veil.

She resists bursting forth, death
on the fore, the burning deal
thighs a-part and the parts ink swollen with
an abyss biting back. Open ready now.

“…as she disappears and comes to life in the shadow…” –S.M.

By the way, what is an impulse. Word razor,
scythe of thought? Knot on a collarbone,
the heartbreak necklace of hours cast about her throat?

How can a person be if violence leaves
her halved and conscious? Where is the person
in the bloom of the wound?

I once saw the death of a person beginning
with the face split open.
Living wake of the scimitars,
not by seeing but through the hole as entering exits.

Like someone carved a palm tree into the glass of the window,
grass on the tree of a portal, the leaf of protection through
varietal veins, varietal views to grow on.

Have you come this far? Are you following time’s nether regions
and gathered random aboriginal parts?
Female haunches and aborted desire?
Are you saying games just to appear positive next?
“Then, what is the question?”

The antiquated lesbian began
exhumed and stitched from the land mines of war crimes off season.
We’re here again, and hear how stomped and aching
we boycott protest a decadent scoff of the species
off the dropped hat’s brim, put on again:

The way she walks,
the way a man hugs a room, I am not
I because my little dog knows me
yes, for I breathe it in, breathe in it,
this lone penchant, for real, the bones, the sag and tugging.
I love a piece of coffee, single breed of success pinned
in motion to the sleeve
of an instructing costume, I in my Lady Day pipe post-abeyance,
the strange fruit of Audre Djuna Virginia Gertrude and scrolls of other islands
adrift in moonshine, buried with nightingale alchemy,
I reach in you, adrift for you, mothered love, love-makers harvest.

AMY KING's most recent books are Slaves to Do These Things and I Want to Make You Safe (Litmus Press), forthcoming 2011. King teaches English and Creative Writing at SUNY Nassau Community College and is currently preparing a book of interviews with the poet, Ron Padgett. She also co-edits Poets for Living Waters with Heidi Lynn Staples and Esque Magazine with Ana Bozicevic. Visit her current site @

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