Three Poems by Laurie Price
She’d craft any refereed interpolation toward
a dual-socket line drawing versus your blank stare.
Good luck it says. You are an imperfect inspiration
to a field mouse. Grab your grub. Bees get
sick in it. History’s not the same as it.
I like it that you don’t have. Do not
be curious. Anything does
not happen to him, he is
a man like a door.
We didn’t pull
Enter the desk. She too was a door.
The doors have now safely left
the room. Though we would
have liked to have counted
on a fourth wall we went
forth like bulldozers in
sand. That’s where
Step 1. Insert the dongle.
Step 2. Singe the sickness.
Step 3. Turn a round.
There are no missions.
Nothing human is a shield.
The handler is the core of the instance.
March through a chilled sector
at the expense of an ambient future.
Walking becomes complicated becomes you so well.
This is that hell where bravery’s a polyester slip that’s
an oxymoron ’cuz it sticks.
The ordinal world embeds unmitigated content & intent
on victimizing your quondam to satisfy a broader lens
triggers moot. Human feedback so problematic,
attracts mercenary endorsements that initiate, attack
or locomote a flagrant linkage leaving you bonk.
Become a user or used, and if that doesn’t do you, if
study kins to scrutiny, well ruminate that. You find
you subscribe to a feeling like love. An acrid melody
breeds a tome. That tome begets rivalry and it’s what
you can’t jazz. The wee legendary takes some grapple
and after all, it’s your opinion, isn’t it? Micturate thy touch
to tend thy fill. That failure, something to piss off your own
content or as so often happens, strategize a noesis to
create some platform, palliate your boredom. Invented
faith, that clumsy wax, segments your future.
When that dimension is you
Random nonsense whatever wheels water progress spikes
trauma target spools or saddened vectors split or change
direction but just one dimension and that dimension is
you or your curry or your gobbledygook whatever wheel so
when you compute or complain or whatever wheel you call it
there’s a thistle in that this ‘that’ stings ‘til you abstract its nettle
and something that would sing though that’s conditional as
so much is would that we were disposed to such and such
an action, would that you might care or be consistent or just
Poet and collagist/object maker Laurie Price has lived in the US, Mexico, Morocco, Spain and now lives in Mexico. She has worked as a writer, editor, proofreader, teacher, jeweller and translator, etc. Her work has appeared in numerous print and online journals, including Arshile, HOW2 (poetry & mixed media sections), MiPOesias and Eoagh, et al. She is the author of Except For Memory (Pantograph Press), Under the Sign of the House (Detour), The Assets (Situations), Minim (Faux Press) and her most recent collection, Radio at Night, was published by Lunar Chandelier Press in 2013.