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BlazeVOX [books]
Cleaning the Mirror
by Joel Chace
(BlazeVOX , 2008)



I am concerned with the other.  There is no differential.  Steal away.  We are just made of the mix of books and paper history.  You may add water.

Terminal comment:

Young One,

You have produced quite a piece of work.  You are lacking neither nor and are submitting yourself to undue criticism and unlearning.  I will score you.  We are all divisible by fragments and numbers.  That is, after all, how we pay.  I will look at you and laugh and mark you up in red.  I will not see any message you have to tell me or get out to me.  I will present myself wrapped in fear of losing my job or being talked about.  I will remain oblivious to your emotional needs.  I will not try.  I am scared.


You are only comprised of tempered remains.  We are soaked in hegemony and cannot come to the surface.  In this case, or in that.  It sits ironic, the way we don’t see the contemporaneous surface.  The heuristics.

This is our speak.  I will use it to suit me.


We have all become reduced.  The plying or prying of our culture is indiscriminate.  Lacking humanism, lacking good deed.  Yes, I said good deed.  Listen neighbor, can you hear my daughter crying Mommie at night?  She is scared and sick.  And someone will tell her she is wrong.


Can we reconsider the position of our emotions, our legacy?  This is the place where I only eat soup.  I hide myself in that fluid removed from the clapping and ecstasy.  

I recommend:

Leave me alone.


 The Hoohah

Dear lullaby,
you are not working.
You are not consoling those red mountains that keep freezing at night.
You are only switching to decaf.

Can’t you see sweet lampoon?
Do the arts and humanities foster diversity?
There’s going to be a molded nation here.  A rage of proportion for the viewed.
Let her go.  Let her smell her work.

Dear mastectomy,
you are not providing any relief when it comes to emoticons
(we are not being irreverent).  We are filing down the halls and wings of the hoohah.

Letter me back.  Pry nonce.  Sell, sell, sell.




two poems


kristine snodgrass