Mary Kasimor

organic fairy tale

red dash no less thought fairy stitch tales computer slave
wheel in revolt.

sporadic ashes cave organic digital blue knife oval face acerbic
belief touch bombs. red stem thought slave touch stitch dash
wheel out page face fairy computer.

cave in touch knife organic slave tales thought out belief. red
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thought.

oval bombs stems wheel fairy cave touch dash quilt spread page
slave in computer. sporadic touch organic belief oval out digital
wheel face ashes acerbic blue stem.

chase stitch.

spread knife bombs dash belief tales slave. no revolt less red
wheel thought touch out slave chase ashes. knife sporadic belief
in quilt. blue stem digital stem organic red fairy computer.

of dross

one large drop
proving nothing /no matter doesn’t
float and the egg
destines itself to live in the word

wanders /the word troubadour

the egg exits
though nothing matters

she knits green cotton yarn
into the flat land of/nothing

(&) is new under the sun

the word green rests close to
blue /baby floats an inch
above the surface
she is a relative to string theory
she is (the memo) the bright
spot on sale in the eye

a bright dross
spins herself to another self
a shaping
of steps out of the cave

the word is her double

when she walks down
The stairs in pieces
shaping sculpture
into the lips of (eccentric
) graffiti

planets in between

takes no lotus
light only
morning breath
                                                                                                         6:00
am  words
splayed unhinged
moon drama
desultory  trails of night hollow  hollow

bone diamonds
floating                                                                                           6:01
wind                                                                                                am skin dust
swept implants

memorizing                                                                                   loneliness
marching forward

yeast hollows honey
stuck in blood planted
in corners
clotted rivers
6:15
am soggy
dogs & rhododendron
blooms float
frog tails
computer child
                                                                                                              6:30
eruption is not funded                                                                 6:30

am bus holds moist
questions in mist
fists memorabilia bounces off
facebook into edible and intricate
puzzles of taste
dog nap

on small bird                                                                                  planets
7:00-5:00                                                                                        in
between dotted lines squeezing out
the prices of
fear
flash & sadness s
splits carriers of intelligence
thought is
not so much the words
just a crow
with questions
wearing it
nature                                                                                   balances
on a wing
in your unbearable                                                             position

she rides to places

next to/ you          I                     lie when
my face         turns/                                 north
finding                  the  inner stone           if life
danced to                death        when ants romp
waltzes             one two                       three
always stealing                 secrets              of
unhappiness         (          an             Old lady rides
the bus)               and blood’s                  floral
the seasons              in                and out   I don’t
know why                   I feel so                 large
digesting             small PIeces                    give me
ocean                     mystery                    in /a quiet
hall (            she rides                                the bus
knits the                  sweater                   ) the light
the eye                       Red jolts                     a
jello                      of murder where           there is
so little                   to   do              replacing the dust
gorged                   on meat                 The bones do a
/dainty                           /dance another       nose to
blow      (she rides                     the bus and Writes
three words     )      the genius of               pills fits
into small              places                           EXplodes
self Worth              with the                 ditto side of
perception plays        the piano before        seconds
bursts into                   flames      the white tea kettle
whistles                          in the                 well of tears
I divine             Water with/in                the heart   is
my heart                throw it out             And if it
rises    a witch             A murder              in the summer
Cleft                of birth                     many street arms
are counted            and Stretched           little /Little
lambs on/  to             the ship                         set sail
with                   purple spices              the GListening
sweat                      of shoulders               sweet meat
again              and Again            at the end   the ship
holds life                   size arms                hanging onto
the water (       the little Old           lady rides   the bus
and holds     A             Cup                            of water    )
and they were     never                           in      mud/silent
middle               The human remains         in       stone

girl band

twig people who didn’t      believe     fall into four dimensions      they never stood straight            they never           counted         themselves more             than once      what exists in   a  zip lock bag is   a pre-existing condition  there are no sunny days      for   certainty 500,000 dream women spake in   tiny tongues formed the first girl band      trees   see through songs a depiction of fluttering wings tapestry of hybrid unicorns and      plums what more than snake skins      elixirs do you want      we packed      ourselves explosives no one felt better      computers spilled  out orgasms swollen            seeds for the manufacturing of dogma         fragmented list of enemies 500,000         the  song on two strings japanese tones In the first      layer of tears no      one cried the sound      of broken beauty opened and bled onto the parking lots      heads dully fall thud men      crouched around         fire          women wearing cheap      flimsy      bodies feel a procession of ants         tight      and magnificent            

water for mrs lot

in favor of insanity
I am water
do not feed me art

the northern lake divided
into territories ceasing water’s
motion to exist

all natural all salt lot’s wife
bobbed in the dead sea
then the cell phone rang

now immortalized in words
flying crows
inserted themselves
infecting the others

I flew out of my house
I will die on desperate planets
waging cellular warfare
in virtual games

all my voices are unplanned births
wanting to be part wolf
from the mysterious ditches

In the rain
the slightly insane man playing soccer
is no longer enclosed in cutting edge oxygen

beautiful inky squids
are made out
of dusk and broken flowers

Mary Kasimor has most recently been published in the following journals: Yew Journal, Big Bridge, Reconfigurations, Moria, Otoliths, Certain Circuits, MadHat, The Bakery, and Altered Scale. She received a Fellowship from US Poets in Mexico for the 2010 Conference and was also a finalist in the 2011 Ahsahta Chapbook Contest. She has had several books of poetry published, most recently “The Windows Hallucinate” (LRL Textile Series, 2013).
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About Posit Editor

Susan Lewis (susanlewis.net) is the editor of Posit (positjournal.com) and the author of eight books and chapbooks, including This Visit (Blazevox, 2015), How to be Another (Cervena Barva Press, 2014), and State of the Union (Spuyten Duyvil Press, 2014). Her ninth book, Heisenberg’s Salon, is available now for pre-order from Blazevox. Her poetry has appeared in such places as The Awl, Berkeley Poetry Review, Boston Review, The Brooklyn Rail, Cimarron, Gargoyle, The Journal, The New Orleans Review, Prelude, Raritan, Seneca Review, So to Speak, Verse, and Verse Daily.