six
poems from “Trilce:
Mistranslations”
by
Steve Gilmartin
6
The
tragedy of dressing for tomorrow
isn’t
like the joke of my laundry:
first
clean then get over-the-line dirty, says Venus,
in
the mud gush of the heart, and no, he
can’t
convince you if you participate in
the
tragic turbulence of injustice.
Since
no one is getting into the water,
in
my fake rule book
license
becomes a feather, and everything
that
veils what will become of me,
it
all stains my ass
like
lead.
Where’s
the challenge in propriety,
brothers
of gloom, sellers of the waltz of property.
And
yes it’s better if you return to laughing;
and
yes better that morning opens its
web
of washed rope, my jailor
wants
me to launder souls. Better that morning start
bringing
satisfaction, open thought, honest
and
perceptive speech, so that it can
LIKE
NO GO IT’S A DUD!
bluing
and firmly planted in chaos.
37
He
coincided with a poor young cha-cha dancer
who
was conducted hastily from the scene.
The
mother, her brothers were amiable and well-mannered
about
her unfortunate “you’re not going to spin me.”
As
a certain negotiation would make me admirable,
my
circular ban has the air of a florid dynasty.
The
novice churns water,
and
knows well that my solitude raises
her
love to be grasped badly.
My
taste goes toward timid sea creatures
humble
dears all daring inside their folds,
and
how your breadth travels along the little dots,
undulating,
the melody written by your deputy of occasions.
And
when both sides of love lift in a hot parrot wind,
it
breaks up my contract and yours
and
the barrier to fear.
40
Whoever
has the guts to say it’s Sunday
sit
down, here with the spider waste
in
the shadow cast by the truck’s big, pure grill.
(A
mollusk attack and your mouse eyes scream,
to
reason out two more low-hanging possibilities
against
the breathing that installs blood’s remorse.)
Listen,
these dreams aren’t proper like pressed pants
more
like naked blood in the corpus cavernosa
with
three-a-day doubling totality.
As
if our degraded hubs just exited drooling! As
if
no one learns by simply embracing
the
whole of fatality’s diaries!
And
so many of our habitual loves offend.
And
one’s own lock on habitual love cajoles and pleads
and
befriends slaving which others see
and
others see.
Whoever
has the nerve to think big on Sunday,
when,
arrested, six lame codes lament
their
manner of being, colored by tides of sentences.
Habitual
love works best on the elevated, below
the
two sighs of Love,
lustrous
tertiary feathers, torturers,
new
papal passageways to the orient.
But
look, the problem is living these days,
meaning
houses have fronts but not much more.
54
Tormented
forager, entering, dirty
from
a quadrangular raid on what never happened.
Big
flop. The balancing of weight and weight
brings
the treasures.
Even
ten-cent vices conflict with all these cons,
and
for ratings to be the highest, the blackest pieces
have
to die in the arms of the State.
In
tune with the divine’s broken eyes,
the
sun lazes, its mercies jagged,
violent
oxygen volunteering to be good,
ardor
quantified but then not ardor, and soon
the
sadness doubles with mountain uplift.
Because
one day no one will be able to enter
or
exit, with the punishment of earth
etched
in your eyes, forager!
71
The
serpentine sun is in your fresh hand,
and
skin dramas catalyze your curiosity.
Quiet.
Nobody knows that the state’s in me,
totally
allowed in. Shut up. No breathing. Nobody
knows
I’m marinating in unity’s suck:
legions
of the obscured, mythical amazons.
Transport
the flayed autos later,
and
let my people, dear atrocity, enter laughing finally
fatally
to those who act.
Your
hands and my hands are reciprocally tied
poles
of protection, practically like depressives,
and
sensible and frugal.
Call
me for a good time, creepy future,
and
spike energy to lower the intimacy, these uncorked
gallons
of dry temperate bureaucracy
restrained
Navajo
crafted
cups, of life right under the skies.
Moving
again into the heat, fanless; baby’s stealing water
just
as the pulping station splinters like love.
74
Midday
eating brown rice and then a year’s passed!
what
you don’t say is, better it than you.
They
lash into mothers who go to college,
who
should only study their reflections; we too love our flesh
our
dear openings. Because you slowly understand
that
in quelling, one has an itinerary to nowhere
as
it rampages across the scene.
On
the day that the year passes
what
you don’t say is, better it than you,
and
rotate the whole scene.
For
there is your separation,
because
you don’t love older women enough.
And
technically all reflections are diced
vessels
of air, no?
these
drawings have bite, both obscure and singular,
for
taking the side of children and
for
jumping up too much in life,
enclosed
simply because of our circular hearing.
Look,
we’re really just clouds of gas.
Steve
Gilmartin’s fiction
and poetry have appeared in Double Room, 14 Hills, 3rd bed,
Mad Hatters’ Review, Poemeleon, Drunken Boat, Able Muse,
Eleven Eleven, BlazeVox, elimae, Cannot Exist, and Otoliths. He
recently completed a manuscript of mistranslations of Cesar Vallejo’s Trilce and
is currently working on English-to-English translations of Emily
Dickinson. He works as a freelance editor and lives in Berkeley,
California.