Two Poems
my first pastoral
There is no crisis averted
that it even existed means
of its gradual and unavoidable
magnetic yank towards encounter
which god knows what then happens
resultant confetti covers, confettis the room
space will be trod and left clumpy
to be torn among the amongst
down there here dire agon and ever anon
to be shorn free of illusion
is of course never any sort of—
the Letter which is inviting you out
(because there is some marker
demystifying your station)
it got lost on the way,
respond accordingly
I’m at a loss but
the newly silent scene
blanketed in it
basking in it this lost sense that
we will always and because of this
the feeling starts to coil around mid-air
the frayed Cable then wrapped itself for delivery
to any unintrusive presence
which turned out controlling.
anything lounging just waits
for its chance to assert on
its specialized scenario—
to be specialized and wonder why
one has dumped all their eggs
to sit waiting in the vestibule
only let further in by external interest
locked from one’s purpose or
maybe just maybe it’s not meant
many just so many hacks circling
kicking up great clouds of dust
to obscure with a coughing fit
that which we look for
under the latticing of
the trees’ general (dwindling) protection
that let in conspicuously encouraging rays
–seeing great things is not enough
there’s a walk away and off into
which takes a bit to stagger into
but once youre there
so excited because curtains
finally match the drapes
the silence of them
the rustle of them
business isn’t so important as advertised
I make a fiction to see if
well if it becomes as it’s supposed to
and if not we’ll walk away and off into
the ever-wetter wilds
Populist arthouse
Immediacy is a soup
I was being funny but it was just mean
Preclusive slurping a tad humbled
but still happy like an old shirt
Newness swayed in the gusts
Guston, everyone likes him these days
Shingles hammered back in
Stink of mildew and days
Sometimes... It’s nice
Driving uphill behind a bus and a contractor’s truck that looks like a municipal vehicle which drags a bed that holds a chained down minibulldozer
On the path
With the wrong acoustics, all chords are illegible
Shut that window. Inhale a little
Speaking precludes any motion
Gettimg myself into trouble
Any hierarchy is arranged
A gust a pause blowing onto the scene
Poetry is a urinal
Arrangement is a urinal
∩
Corey Qureshi is the author of four chapbooks of poetry. He runs the webpage/reading series/publisher BOXX Press. He lives in Philadelphia with his wife and children, where he works as a baker. @q_boxo