John Levy
My Wife
My wife is painting
the ocean. It,
the ocean, looks
real
sort of, on the
watercolor
paper
because
she (my
wife, not
the ocean)
is excellent.
I
can't
judge
the ocean.
Nine Lines of Mine from Nine Poems
Where'd I put my sentence? My head filled and
They felt they had to enter. Everyone else did.
Why tell me about them and expect me to laugh?
Each weighs a ton and offers
dark scenes, ugliness. Sometimes
I'd look out
out of a hidden place
Orange hem of morning and evening
that come to us weathered and rich
On the side of
Misplaced X-Ray of My Head
It was big, that
piece of film, in a slightly bigger
envelope. I thought I'd keep it
because I like skulls
and did way back before they
decorated everything from t-shirts to
almost anything else for sale. Maybe
it will turn up someday, in one of the boxes of
almost everything I've ever owned. It's a wobbly
negative
heavier than a giant
birthday card. If I don't find it before I die
my wife or children will, maybe
laughing (lovingly I hope) at all
the shit I kept — and now THIS? —
after they open the
huge envelope and find what is no
greeting card
I'd choose to send them.
Annette
I open a Giacometti book
randomly and find
"Portrait of Annette" 1954
Oil on canvas
and feel
speechless
looking at her
sitting nude, on a
chair, as modest
a pose as possible
nude
serious
and his repeated
lines
struggle and focus
on a planet
that might as well have no name
or words
for now
as now
vibrates
John Levy lives in Tucson, Arizona. He is a lawyer who worked as a County Public Defender before retiring in 2016. He has published a handful of books, some of which are electronic books.
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My Wife
My wife is painting
the ocean. It,
the ocean, looks
real
sort of, on the
watercolor
paper
because
she (my
wife, not
the ocean)
is excellent.
I
can't
judge
the ocean.
Nine Lines of Mine from Nine Poems
Where'd I put my sentence? My head filled and
They felt they had to enter. Everyone else did.
Why tell me about them and expect me to laugh?
Each weighs a ton and offers
dark scenes, ugliness. Sometimes
I'd look out
out of a hidden place
Orange hem of morning and evening
that come to us weathered and rich
On the side of
the metal drawer (beige) of my filing cabinet a sticker (paper) that says WE HOPE YOU ENJOY THE QUALITY OF THIS PRODUCT INSPECTED BY 767 1192-92 and yes, I even enjoy the line breaks on the sticker, not to mention the spacing that seems not totally utilitarian and I wonder if 767, the inspector, is a man or a woman and is still alive and if he or she was the one who glued this little label in such an unobtrusive place so far from a child's dreams of posterity
Misplaced X-Ray of My Head
It was big, that
piece of film, in a slightly bigger
envelope. I thought I'd keep it
because I like skulls
and did way back before they
decorated everything from t-shirts to
almost anything else for sale. Maybe
it will turn up someday, in one of the boxes of
almost everything I've ever owned. It's a wobbly
negative
heavier than a giant
birthday card. If I don't find it before I die
my wife or children will, maybe
laughing (lovingly I hope) at all
the shit I kept — and now THIS? —
after they open the
huge envelope and find what is no
greeting card
I'd choose to send them.
Annette
I open a Giacometti book
randomly and find
"Portrait of Annette" 1954
Oil on canvas
and feel
speechless
looking at her
sitting nude, on a
chair, as modest
a pose as possible
nude
serious
and his repeated
lines
struggle and focus
on a planet
that might as well have no name
or words
for now
as now
vibrates
John Levy lives in Tucson, Arizona. He is a lawyer who worked as a County Public Defender before retiring in 2016. He has published a handful of books, some of which are electronic books.
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