CITIES ARE FOR THE ASSHOLESpoetry by Marty Cain
Would I be hollow if I knew where I was. Would I be full if my bones absconded. Would I sediment in bed to exfoliate my flesh and marrow my ferns and swallow the pills and lie in the Mississippi sun until my body is bronzed and I feel exposed and colored by the clouds abound until my lover knows me as a whiskey hollow, until my father knows me as the string that I am, for the Lord plucks me when he plays a tune, for he glissandos the days that blur together when I lie drunk on the couch and feel a ball turn in my chest and call it a fragment and call it a planet and call it a cosmic drowsiness that encompasses my frame of speech whence I breathe and piss and write and break down the burning fences around me and stand in the yard and say I am hard for this thunderous field in the dreadnought morn when I stand with my coffee I am headlights round the corner the crickets chirping like a crazy man scratching walls I piss in the hole I ford thy stream I culture thy barn my juggernaut gullet my lily anus the wallpaper peels the breakneck speed my chickenblood runs when it beckons a moon more lovely, a purse like an organ. A bodiless canoe. A curse undead.
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Marty Cain is the author of Kids of the Black Hole (Trembling Pillow Press, 2017), and www.enterthe.red, a digital supplement. Most recently, his creative and critical work has appeared in Fence, Boston Review, Tarpaulin Sky, and TAGVVERK, among others. He holds an MFA from the University of Mississippi, and currently, is pursuing a PhD at Cornell University, where he studies rural poetry communities and the infrastructure of late capitalism. With Kina Viola, he edits Garden-Door Press, a chapbook micropress. |
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