Three poems by /Patrick J. Lawler

BIO

Every time I think I am writing a novel it turns into a script, and every script transforms itself into a poem. During these confusing times, I am abundantly confused. In a vibrantly translucent manner, what I have written undergoes a process to return to its origins. Eventually all my words will be inscribed on stone walls with ashes and spit and animal fat. Until then, all my poems turn into BIOs.

COUNTRIES CLUTCH THEIR BORDERS

Maps are patched together like the ethereal bodies 

of stain glass saints with

caulking around their organs.

We embrace Time’s enormous flatulent body.

The past is afraid to be here.

Thought is a thistle.  All the border guards live in one booth.

EVENTUALLY THE DREAM LIKE A PILL DISSOLVES INSIDE THE SLEEPER

Small quantities of dream are lodged in the head.  We know this 

because burning birds fly through the sky.  While the same dream 

flows through a hundred heads, the Grandmother sews the sad colors 

to the frightened colors.  When we connect a generator to the head, 

it lights up the whole dead town, illuminating the perilous and twisted.

When she looks up to the sky, the Grandmother sees slashes of light.

THAT’S WHEN THE DEAD START DANCING

Swimming in the thick elements of time,

we eat the worm and throw away the apple—

hunger and strangeness             metabolizing.

The world smells of sweet sawdust; it takes a deep 

breath and waits at the end of the exhausted dirt road.

That’s when we realize we’ve always been dancing.

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