RAIN CHECK POEMS

Aaron Simon

B L A Z E V O X [ B O O K S ] Buffalo, New York

RAIN CHECK POEMS by Aaron Simon Copyright 2015 Published by BlazeVOX [books] All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced without the publishers written permission, except for brief quotations in reviews. Printed in the United States of America Interior design and typesetting by Geoffrey Gatza Cover Art by Jessica Dessner First Edition ISBN: 978-1-60964-216-7 Library of Congress Control Number: 2015939195 BlazeVOX [books] 131 Euclid Ave Kenmore, NY 14217 Editor@blazevox.org

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TOUCHED AND GONE We searched the wrong places forced air, equivalence outside the appendix in dispassionate leaves. But time never stopped recusing its deniers and Decembers dusky wash brought us to our knees. The first vintages are here all the way from Kentucky Its key-stroke or bust Light box blues.

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SKY STORY 1. I wont pretend to know the secret its hard enough to think out loud flying over the spotted coast with no ideas of my own Who said its harder to give up love than life the smallness and the greatness like scattered parts of Icarus that floated back to earth Was it Cline in a nod to the hpital knowing one cant write with blood? First do no harm 2. Theres a lake in my imagination only distinguished by its pinkness I mustnt forget I didnt exist once its the height of all sensation But this is not my story the airspace is controlled small roads go to the lake and those are real roads down there My Titos Vodka is from Austin Watsons Tonic is from Xiamen

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follow the cloud procession with half-shut eyes its why I pick a window

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BITTER HALF The last word begins like a poorly scored pill I cant speak for you cherry picking is one method a frame within a frame where the past is heavy with hidden costs and you cant get out of the way we dont need another hero to return us to point A the end of our transparency is the beginning of composition

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RAIN CHECK for Bill Berkson 1. I left early to get a table Instead I ate dirt. 2. I'm not late, I'm lying naked in the street. 3. Recall the heart witness tyrannical purple sky. 4. The principal feeling: The sky is straining to pee. 5. O Fates! O Body! Rude sirens cause a scene. 6. Lightning gown. When I resurface I'll breathe. 7. Olive oil. Alum? I smell wood-smoke. Or wool. 8. Red light distracted I sleep, you dream. 9. O memory! You're here, with license to grow roots!

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10. Paragons, baize night birds, heat. 11. Where was I? The dawn air inside a basket. 12. Plan of circumstance sidelined by a tree. 13. Outside the Palace, with a bottle and a snack. 14. Forces collide. It happens. I'll feel better once I eat.

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NUDES More or less a vandal I was turning a corner wet with footnotes couched between noons You were there but not really inside the lacuna peeling tape from windows readying a squeegee We must talk before we write or read in front of mirrors commiserate with bodies still learning to be naked I don't like it either especially on a Wednesday after listening to voicemails from a guy named Thad Light crawls across my desk then rests on my calendar sensuality for some a mere punch-card for you

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VERTIGINOUS DETOUR Like I was saying, we the profligate deserve every break we get even now, dodging a storm while dining al fresco under the bridge And the wind carries your napkin away My greatest fear is our only hope that someday well learn to sit up straight without speaking Do you recognize this language? Your eyes havent changed since weve been here I see myself in them I look like a pigeon

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SOME HISTORIES for Jessica Dessner The world was bigger then she was older Death was known his name revered Fevers werent made to be broken Love flipped on with a switch We walked to the movies trees gave shade brothels spilled their light The Orpheum was filled with orphans! Crocodiles wept Hearts and rivers overflowed Never dull or glac Incense burned on corners wherever men tossed dice Present meant something like the variegated moon and the suns infidelity unnoticed in a crowd Magicians and clowns weren't mocked Actors slept in tents Cars were only for gods The solemn ones without kids Promise moved away from the cities insistent on fair-trade poets kept baseball to themselves Beauty never pulled away

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POEM FOR A ON INDEPENDENCE DAY Are you my portmanteau? Most mountains are nameless pings from a giant white cross in the smog Donner Summit traffic Youd be amused by the picnic sign but youre in Paris where its late and symbols are tragic Are you wearing black stockings and nursing the void? Drink up then come home the water is getting warmer

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SKY STORY 2 Forgetting to breathe in fluted light she redacts the sky high over the terminal like a bronze bust of Mercury grounded by design What does she know of takeoff and landing where language becomes pressure a story of clauses both profound and inert? This doesn't need to be rhetorical fog gives the perfect cover a classic disappearance she'll make up the time in the air

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HYPNIC JERK The sensation starts when I slice my thumb opening a letter from Fannie I don't know her though she reveals the pain in anonymity The thunder stops then it hails the rent check bleeds through my breast pocket I'm lost in a roundabout indecent to the naked eye I pick up her tracks outside the pharmacy where a shrine has been extinguished the natural world on index cards reflected in oily puddles What moves Fannie through the night assuming she has substance and are her words colorless when pure like a fluorite?

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TYPE VECU for Genet Ive seen you here before ordering the counter but I never stick around for the eventual display toothpicks flanking mints buttressed by a notepad a pencil (for color) its charming point and line you finally take a risk disappear into the freezer smoking with the grill cooks as the brunch line grows and groans and like you Im lost party to a phrase taking tips from strangers clearing more than plates

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OPPOSITE SIGNS Its necessary for me to dislike certain people the ascetic especially I cant do much for them other than set the record straight De Chirico was an accomplished dreamer a man among puppets the only bright-side of a dimly lit room Space affords curiosity when the past becomes providence something to read in the evening just before turning in This strange iconophilia flings me into despair: Fire God and Wooden Boy embracing under the moon