Adam Fieled


from The Posit Trilogy


To Augustine, after reading his “Confessions”

If you really did find
something or someone
immutable, freed from
torturous progress, I
can’t say I don’t believe—

If you came to rest
apart from the unworkable
aligned profoundly with
profundity’s alignment,
congrats from a still point—

If I seem cynical,
catching your desperation
as tides confounded you,
I at least know your death,
its heft, text, all plumbed

by me, or someone else.


The Point, Beyond

So much space inheres, so much
withdraws from what space opens,
light from blue-tinted suns & skies,
so that leaks of seed may only be
caught when one’s back is squarely
turned, towards more maintenance. As
circuits express boundaries, what “I”
inheres has a sense of endless reign,
half-accepted, half-rebelled against, but
mobile seeds & selves past horizon, gone.
Crosses drop— barbed wire ambience,
seeds of fathomless lows, brilliant clarities.


Tranny Dream

I find myself in bed with a woman
with a man’s crotch, & find this
unacceptable, & so excuse myself
into an autumn evening in North
Philadelphia, looking for a train
station, finding more nudie bars.
I get trapped in an enclosed space
with a stripper, done with her work
for the night, who counsels me
against taking the train home, that
I can sleep with her backstage at
her bar. I push past, into the night
again, & am assailed on all sides.


Midnight Saturday Night

You said (it was a way of saying),
pray you touch my parts in such a
way that you don’t damage them, but
of course I can’t touch your parts
except to damage them when the times
are so forbidding that to have parts
not backed by gold is to have no parts
at all, & it can’t be crisp as it was,
fresh as it was, ripe as it was, as
your cauldron is full of grease, against

holding on to anything but allergies,
& I am allergic to the idea of doing
this if a new cauldron cannot be
forged, & you’re (& I’m) a fox walking
on ice in a blasted landscape, & at
midnight we crash into this together—

Dracula on Literature

You can’t tell me
   you don’t feed on
      the mysterious disappearance

of the need to do this—
   that raw life & blood
      would suffice to

satisfy, & gird you
   against the grinding
     towards sphere-music

you fancy you make.
   I’ve lived a thousand
      years among human

souls, all in need of
    blood, little else, and
       words are no blood

at all— what suffices
   for such as you is
     (as you say) a

simulacrum of blood,
   with limited flow-
      potential, & as such

I counsel you (if
   you ask) to feed on
     something more wholesome—

don’t scoff— wholesome
    is not relative
      for the human species,

& your words are dirt,
   feeding no one directly,
      & those who feed are

suspect, chilled by
    exposure to terminal
       frosts, unable to bite

what might suffice in the end… 

Adam Fieled is a poet based in Philadelphia. His books and e-books include Opera Bufa, When You Bit..., Apparition Poems, Mother Earth, and Disturb the Universe. The Posit Trilogy and The Great Recession are forthcoming. He has work in Jacket, Tears in the Fence, fourW Anthology, Upstairs at Duroc, Blazevox, Great Works, The Argotist Online, Poetry Salzburg Review, the & Now Anthology and elsewhere.
 
 
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