5 Poems by B.J. Best

localized missiles

your drug hands are telling a tornado,

spinning, fishing to ash. watch it

in the dead gravel. i savored the windows

like poison in the dashy compass,

fresh as a gift like communed signs of grass.

how you bottled up the back, dreaming of smoke

and every dead mourning

and the stars planted at the hotel.

the heat becomes dynamos, one halo

of things that start you

like a curl of the train, thundering the clouds.

so i see it was a telephone. i said:

“look at the forest queen, a shirt

of your team of a boxtom and screen:

jackball as well the bathroom boots,

your face says it can’t be september.”

my backwords. you asked them. maybe i drank

and floated like a time. maybe the lightning

is candles, strings of lit worms. where the sky is rain

you would do anything above the volted clouds.

a particular man

but you give me, you remember,

perhaps after your constellation:

arc of red birds like style.

i think you left the plants later

when i was nothing,

august one to tell you back

with trees into mittens

of your knives–

you tell drinking some inchword

of the fishermam, the gorgeous

attackberries in his egg-years,

the boat garden deep prophecy

pinking through the weather,

saying what she loved.

surely you’re mean like a commodore.

you would christ that this nation

burned from love. good seems to snow,

the train belly’s eyes

tastes of song, and everyone’s over

my thought of trying to say,

my soul of thrushed smoke.

coming off perfectly

so the windows are underwater,

sure, “and the old inscrutable

storm’s twilight drifted.”

the earth wearing weeks,

biology clipping, myself

with a cigarette and i draw drift

in a new highway day.

i just like driving a slowly hour

beyond that call about green.

i get infected miles

from 1971, hospital,

electric marshes and wind.

o let the romance shuttle be—

my listening static on the sutura

back to run me of bleeding.

why, jam the sunflowers

that must like the gods—

tallying yourscapes that fly.

later, but heaven

it’s see birds and real, a scold heat friendly

and them across beautiful, the port clears of fair

melting through mashing bones of blood.

doctors smoky stain her who keep familiar,

all shrinking as a rose. but they all white

in the waterfall teams of days later,

kissed where explode her won’t soul.

why answer in a branch, she says.

the past first say, so you’d say.

you can go like a geology, come

to hope the truth of your life, and i don’t know.

later, but heaven. the bed that had seen

deaths of the wrist, while she all empty flight,

spiritual, not love-in-september wrong.

truth will be a restaurant, i said!

the elegists stand by the cottage,

seagulls in the everywhere

like no calendar, like all nail a time.

so wicked for the amenable drifting

and a voice explodes, thirsting eggs.

over easy

i get your packed problems,

strong of pointed breaths

on the subzero of the body.

but what is sailing the season

of the jagged clouds, or a cornfield

as it seems through the dark?

the worn words calm up the burning

in the gravel below.

so here’s the story of subtly sheets,

life in streams of minor.

a sermonic water snakes the snow,

and i study the sand and the lightning.

i have these longing hands,

curlicues round and swang,

and you clapped our lives

(electric-winging, a rockwork

of some god) into a creek of photons.

months make mountains holy.

so simply these eggs

for the way of a swirl

away from a bird of laments.

love is breath’s breakfast word.

 

B.J. Best is the author of three books and four chapbooks of poetry, most recently Yes (Parallel Press, 2014). He lives in Wisconsin. Torch-rnn is created by Justin Johnson, based on work by Andrej Karpathy. It lives on GitHub.

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