Nicholas Bon
At a Cinematic Distance, the Machine is Just a Machine
...until a clumsy ballet / then a memory
a rewinding / light resting
in the corners / of a new geometry
a path cut through / static and excuse
no bridge to erect / over inevitable routine
only as electric / as biology dictates
rising storms / hands as now pale tools
once cast in gold / and thrown like well
wishes to the sea / building pyramids
while clothed / in flowers
sweet songs sutured / to delicate lips
each disappointing / star reassembled
no shangri-la, no mess / of stars about our faces
no boom, no grip / on the steeple
this rusted amphitheater / this song for the angels
an armada / under wilted tongue
finally lilacs stitched / to faded lining
the constant hum / this tired smile
everything pulsing / in stereo energy
hair grown long / over mysterious fields
a glowing mess of ice / formed into sheets
the storm drains / & sunburned faces
everything blue / & humming
angelic birdcall / voices speak in code
like the night / & buzzing static
telephone outlining / the barriers of our house
crown of thorns / & water
window / & its curtain
we’re behind it now / dressed in awful machinery
laughing laughing / laughing laughing
these static spirits / encoded in night
a warning upon the water / a delicate incantation
Memory
clutching root to broken bone
ghost to soil; we're under it all,
throwing electric wing to the wind.
kiss me, kiss me you yellow parakeet
at the bottom of this terrible ocean
I am only as pale as you are
Brakhage in Autumn
          all electric in
          our palms                                darling
                                        videotape
darling          the water
darling the
                                             under terrible tree
                                             light epiphany
                         hands subtly over               water
meadow
                                             sequence now forgotten
      sounds every
                                    body stealing everybody
jackie says it's just a minute
     says it's just               that
                                        june my hair          is long
                                       june          my tired smile
                 elvis the air elvis        the stars
           a maze of burnt     windows
                                                          a car
on fire                   but not a promise
                              i map the air
currents                    with precision
               picking hand
                                   -fuls of flowers
               or a mount
-ain
                    me always a bride
-smaid never a wildflower
          me with this out        -ward face
Nicholas Bon lives in an inconsequential town in the American Southeast. He edits Epigraph Magazine. You can find two of his poems in West Wind Review, and you can visit him online at www.nicholasbon.com.
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At a Cinematic Distance, the Machine is Just a Machine
...until a clumsy ballet / then a memory
a rewinding / light resting
in the corners / of a new geometry
a path cut through / static and excuse
no bridge to erect / over inevitable routine
only as electric / as biology dictates
rising storms / hands as now pale tools
once cast in gold / and thrown like well
wishes to the sea / building pyramids
while clothed / in flowers
sweet songs sutured / to delicate lips
each disappointing / star reassembled
no shangri-la, no mess / of stars about our faces
no boom, no grip / on the steeple
this rusted amphitheater / this song for the angels
an armada / under wilted tongue
finally lilacs stitched / to faded lining
the constant hum / this tired smile
everything pulsing / in stereo energy
hair grown long / over mysterious fields
a glowing mess of ice / formed into sheets
the storm drains / & sunburned faces
everything blue / & humming
angelic birdcall / voices speak in code
like the night / & buzzing static
telephone outlining / the barriers of our house
crown of thorns / & water
window / & its curtain
we’re behind it now / dressed in awful machinery
laughing laughing / laughing laughing
these static spirits / encoded in night
a warning upon the water / a delicate incantation
Memory
clutching root to broken bone
ghost to soil; we're under it all,
throwing electric wing to the wind.
kiss me, kiss me you yellow parakeet
at the bottom of this terrible ocean
I am only as pale as you are
Brakhage in Autumn
          all electric in
          our palms                                darling
                                        videotape
darling          the water
darling the
                                             under terrible tree
                                             light epiphany
                         hands subtly over               water
meadow
                                             sequence now forgotten
      sounds every
                                    body stealing everybody
jackie says it's just a minute
     says it's just               that
                                        june my hair          is long
                                       june          my tired smile
                 elvis the air elvis        the stars
           a maze of burnt     windows
                                                          a car
on fire                   but not a promise
                              i map the air
currents                    with precision
               picking hand
                                   -fuls of flowers
               or a mount
-ain
                    me always a bride
-smaid never a wildflower
          me with this out        -ward face
Nicholas Bon lives in an inconsequential town in the American Southeast. He edits Epigraph Magazine. You can find two of his poems in West Wind Review, and you can visit him online at www.nicholasbon.com.
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