h o m e........
p a s t   i s s u e s....
s u b m i s s i o n s....
l i n k s

 

 

.........
ANNA WILSON


  THE SURREALIST ON FOGO

 

this is not a vision

your mouth is a strange balloon

island resolves into chicken

this is not a game

resume dream résumé

professional mania

I serve no smoking king

my mistresses eyes mirror

me from under a rock

round thighs touch

legs do not meet the torso

lobster again?

I walk down the mountainside

not a mountain, a “head”

I walk down the side of the head

in leather

European men’s walking sandals

who me?

I wind down until I arrive at the top

it’s snowing fishermen

cut out every flake

wet scraping

divine wax

shoot ink

your negative involuntary heat

you only melt in sketches

consequences are not constraints

silly in stitches

shellfish go beyond automatism

take a limpet to its most absurd limits

this is not an explanation of life

 

 

 

 



  THE TYPOGRAPHER ON FOGO

 

Leaden today, leaden tomorrow.
            Luddites lament.
O, my letter, imagine a dory’s descent. No, my letter, objectified:
sterned, bowed, kerned, fit to take between your teeth.
Recently, I decided that a friend’s concerns justified my return
            to bolder character.
Earlier designs guaranteed upsetting typesetting.
My past, hanging glyphs, my future families ground down,
till the literal terror of littoral terroir.
 
I’m interested in what cod would choose
            if cod wrote the news.
P.S. and P.S.S. In our majesty’s baseline service
            how can I best serve island ponies and caribou?
Sorts of ligature reach back, blind runes tie me to you in fluffy,
            filthy pillows.
Ultimately, that’s what the clouds here are always shaped like.
You, threatening.
My temporary anchor floats past like an unrepeatable headline: 
            THIS TYPE SUGGESTS THAT YOU ARE FUCKED:
            YOU MADE CHOICES THAT DROVE EVERYONE AWAY
            AND NOW YOU WILL ALWAYS BE ALONE AND LONELY.
 
Dourfaced as though always staring into a northern sun.
Outré and unavoidable, broken crab piled on the edge of the dock,
            liquid graphite flames into livid dead-red in the afternoon heat.
Letterforms are all I see when I look at the women here, and elsewhere.
Other Fogos, such as Cape Verde and a Brazilian steakhouse,
            do they matter?
Returning hard to the fact that I am this old.
 
Skin flake, writing in the sound [sic].
I scope in, then out, then in.
Tern skywriting, deer fly.
 
Ascenders, ascend!         
Mix with your opposites, or else.
Ellipsis, and not the good kind, ensues.
This script disappears into a puddle of frigid water,
while my paper reduces itself to tears.

 

 




  THE PUBLIC ARTIST ON FOGO

 

NO      FIRE      JETS
      NO      FOG     MACHINES
            NO      FOUNTAIN
                  NO      GIANT        BUNNY
                        NO      VAST    METAL  HAND

no I build your shadow

island out of light

four days in July I cast ice-broken scrub

tundra on Turpin’s Trail, Skerwink

I suggest foxes against your cliffs

voles, gander, out of light

make the light of boatfulls of full traps

returning, inevitably, geometry, your window panes

technically, it’s true, my skydome

we pollute the night

when you tire of me, don’t                       

(my limited engagement)

take it down

just turn it off

 

 




  THE SERIOUS CLOWN ON FOGO

 

last stop on the contemporary
clown circuit, I respond to my environment,
only you are my environment, so you will feel
uncomfortable

everything else is extra, like “a wig”

that lighthouse? “wig”
that yellow moth? “wig”
that basket of fish? “wig”

who am I, I am asked—at the mixer
I meet some kind of theorists—of sub-sub
somethings—I only remember their mouths
pronouncing “dirty theory”
and so on

it was funny
because of her small capped teeth,
her name was Moraine or Morose
or my mind was elsewhere, like
where I turn on your tiny stereo,
make your speakers bleed,
funny, huh?

I concede to leotards
I wear the same nose       wherever I go

everyone wants me to suspend myself
from teensy-tinsy rainbows a million
miles above my audience, a dramatic splat              
waiting to happen, yes, I exaggerate

but when I flounder around here on the ground with everyone else
it’s intentional

clowns without borders,                                       
like there’s anything else




...............

BIO: Anna Wilson relocated from the Third Coast to the Gulf Coast to undertake an M.F.A. at Louisiana State University, where she also teaches writing and makes "textually active" visual art, from small books and videos to large installations featuring handmade paper. Anna's poetry, reviews, and interviews have been featured in Gulf Coast, The Volta Blog, New Delta Review, and other places.





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