THE BARN PARTY
No one came under
leaves drenching plastic
cups lit up over-
passes pissing thrills
a ragged border, call it Texan lace God
bless this memory hole
hot set top warm soaps
animals out race streets closed off
locked with shops
so they can paste new tip cup jokes
the first last days.
Prepare soups in the reference
section, painkiller
sting the singer, signs the Scorpion
traced on Hayden’s smashed
lens flyers dream they mulched those
fields in turn, turn your mop to
rented speakers, lights too
I believe you, saying I am going to
welcome shades of structures, plaints
pleats, ripped faces, subway walls, the will
got me here, so I made lists
and lost in the fall all invited
sought other reunions
studying to be yoga instructs
best coffee in town, Om, it must be
payday
A QUIET NARRATIVE
To place a growing woman
using tough gloves
in rock gardens
out front
depends on how you turn home
whirl around sunset
slides of shoestring tours
U-turns, artifacts
stop talking for one second
time today
In the house
we eat chimes cut
flowers cloud-like broccoli
on oilcloth
A blue light switched on
deep in me pits
Painting a peacock badly perched
on drooping vines
on yarrow weeds
Making little sense edible altogether
microphones we carry sponge
words like pages
or croutons, familiar, offline, dedicated
Epiphany telling this
I am not able to say I have quieted days faster
Getting on my last being
recall where we were just
at start
A bit of rain in online trees
even stones soak it in
that feature in today’s camera work
THE FLOATING LOUNGE
Blood and tears marked as wet
ripped days, trash goods
sift uselessness
For what colors blue colors orange colors green the field
(outdoors in)
rusting tracks melt stops in snapshot
polite smile for the time
few these days printed sneaking
into the ward at night
the chase itself
of course
would have been
workers such as shrug the game never was
owning that invisible trance
join an inflated parade baby effigy
tethered to street
comfortable couches in there
ambient music
ends up on the share drive
the administrator named boulevard
HARD DRIVE SCRUB
Now you’re in
there is nothing you can’t see
electric lights: bobbins
an energy, quantity, number this
abstract thing violence at eight
point five million
organic bananas ninety-nine cents per
pound make babies
of us all of us
again data’s voice girlish enacts
Archie Bunker accents hidden slacks power wears
then it is indescribable.
it bites
humid climates
subtropical fairly spread
in air, part of the greater
circling and plunging, hover however
furling huge blooms
I scarce know what
it is sharp and free
its present whiteness
it is charming notes.
Half of the oil saved, Tom
Wolfe said, by Dallas residents a pity
a whim, slip you an Ambien
to a new extent, a new energy, that is the case
confess group facts fail
to say rejoicing Ssips
drinks ninety-nine cents.
___________________________________________________________
Chris Hosea was born in Princeton, New Jersey on November 11, 1973. He lives in Brooklyn. He earned his AB at Harvard and his MFA at the University of Massachusetts Amherst. His poems appear in Conjunctions, 6×6, VOLT, Denver Quarterly, Harvard Review, Horse Less Review, Wildlife, Swerve, LIT, and many other magazines. Find out more about Chris at http://chrishosea.com and http://theblueletter.org