How do birds fly?
And what would happen if I tried?
The Monday morning mailbox
Calls to me with open arms
Like the petals of a chrysanthemum
Blooming in May.
I don’t even know if chrysanthemums
Bloom in May
But I imagine they would.
Beetles drop from rooftops
Twisting, twirling in the air
Catching glints of sunlight off their shiny backs
Like firedancers.
The sidewalk speaks of loneliness;
The gardeners came yesterday.
A shovel lies discarded,
The paint on its handle
Chipping with presumably leaded paint;
It looks about fifty years old.
I think of Emma,
Her rosy cheeks the color of
Half-ripened pomegranates.
I see the finches then
Or are they?
Emma would know.
It’s spring and cloudy with a chance of finding love
Violins and chocolates as if it were February
I think of fingernails and nail-biting
And half-whispered prayers
And Christianity
And of the earthquake that cracked the chair in the foyer.
I wonder if they have mountains in Idaho
And if beavers can swim faster than cheetahs can run –
What a silly question.
I think of indie pop
And its words of guilt
And of Tokyo on a summer night
And wonder why.
What is your favorite color?
Perhaps blue.
Rain become ocean when it pours in the Pacific.
Robins puff their chest, they would be biting their nails if they could.
I was five when learned the blue lines in my arms are blood.
Green is cherry stems and rose thorns and Jay Gatsby.
My most important set of eyes, healthy grass, trees that I choose not to climb.
The snot on the subway seat listens to the lady sing.
Maybe orange.
Sour candy and sunsets (I’ve never felt lonely during a sunset).
Koi ponds mean fancy houses and fancy houses are good for playdates.
Citrus kisses and healthy pirates.
Pink is my toy flute, silk pajamas, bathroom tiles.
The cherry blossoms have bloomed on 45th Avenue.
My cheeks turned pink last Monday around 4:00 pm.
What’s your biggest secret?
What day is it today? I can’t remember
between the horns and screeching bus brakes,
the square architecture of the Las Vegas skyline and
thrashy metal music-in-quotes blaring in
through my windows into the close air of my office,
where I am dreaming about partly cloudy
afternoons in Florence, pears and linen curtains,
honey, hot showers, and hurricanes–
or something else humid enough to buckle my knees,
shake me from dullness, collapse
the fortress I’ve built around myself since leaving
the comfort of home, the cerulean safety
of water, of wildflowers. Here there is only desert
dryness, three pm solitude,
the artificial lawns that drown me, make me
wish for a shovel to bury myself in sand, ask
who am I doing all of this for?
It was noon on a tuesday
when I set out for the moon.
My calf rose like the quinoa
in my throat. To Nahville? No.
“Hey Jude” is still playing there.
To Pakistan? No (George Clooney’s
shadow still looms large). A
shirt in the main street: Jimi
Hendrix in blue print. It primarily
stinks here though. I roughed
my way onto the bus, past
Middle C and the Name of the Wind
to the Lunar Square. An
indecisive giraffe confronted me
by the oak from Nebraska. It
reminded me of the hot stove,
the trees I wanted to find in Alaska.
But I digress. The moon is my target,
my better self. Classic rock; Casablanca;
an earthquake. Psych! That all
happened in France. Paul McCartney
met Bjorn and the spoke of small things:
Coronavirus and Mom. The streets
of mediocrity led me to Chesley,
but guitar, sweetness, base still lie ahead.
Not procrastination. Poetry and the Caps
await me on the moon; I must rejoin
them. So I left behind my hindu
Bird of Prey, my couch, thinking
them obsolete, like watermelon.
I passed the adidas-striped rabbit
during the summer in the Arctic sea.
Better than seeing that on MySpace,
I suppose. Yet somehow I still wonder
if a sloth barks in June? My heart, my clay heart,
why did you leave me in the basement?
And how on earth will I make a poem out of this?
when will release come for us?
asked the poet wandering
lost in the woods.
from across the rose beds
the sandalwood scent, contagion,
mammals straight on that morning blue.
the shades of mango trees paint
june as if I had never left behind your eyes—
steel, tar, moving on from saline touch
just as that frail girl from the party we met.
remember her feathers, her pacific smile
swimming endlessly across her lips,
no regrets from having taken up her place
in the chaise next to you.
now the birds can sing ella around me
no more moonlights in Vermont, neither falls
the red-crake and the tea pot I left in your kitchen
are now yours only—not going back to your body.
cajun regret, the news flash in my head amid high oaks:
he’s banned us again—no bus, no Amsterdam, no smile,
not going back.
the beaten path ahead is beige with mist rising north
the grass risks crossing—the tentativeness of a tennis match,
insecure. do you know if these colors, these bodies buried
under nature so vibrant fear too they’ll be forgotten?
falsehood. parakeets sing of joy now in major chords
and the polka-dot skirt your friend wore that Saturday night
drills my memory—recalls—of when we met in New York City.
not going back. but it’s different now—what’s in store for he who loves freely?
why are we here? to meet the sunrises of fridays? to take the train to normandy? to weather every earthquake as it comes and hope
that on the other side is sleep? animal sleep?
i see the dung beetle rolling its saturn shapes on garage floors,
i see the dog days & the poll days & the virus sick monsoon days and i welcome them too.
i can do this because i know that sometimes sunlight drips like honey over my head,
it runs down my jeans and over my toes and maybe this is the first bite to forgiveness,
to calling my mom and saying happy birthday, mom. i am putting it down. i am opening the wooden chest.
i am letting memory step out of my ribcage and maybe this is the antidote to loneliness,
to chewing on my cuticles until they bleed, to blue crowds and airport foxes and the ghosts that follow me on elm street.
in this story i am the protagonist, painting impressionist brushstrokes on piano keys. music with meaning. i refuse quiet.
in this story i am the bullet. i am the kitchen. i am the third grade gymnasium.
who is telling the story?
How do birds fly?
And what would happen if I tried?
The Monday morning mailbox
Calls to me with open arms
Like the petals of a chrysanthemum
Blooming in May.
I don’t even know if chrysanthemums
Bloom in May
But I imagine they would.
Beetles drop from rooftops
Twisting, twirling in the air
Catching glints of sunlight off their shiny backs
Like firedancers.
The sidewalk speaks of loneliness;
The gardeners came yesterday.
A shovel lies discarded,
The paint on its handle
Chipping with presumably leaded paint;
It looks about fifty years old.
I think of Emma,
Her rosy cheeks the color of
Half-ripened pomegranates.
I see the finches then
Or are they?
Emma would know.
It’s spring and cloudy with a chance of finding love
Violins and chocolates as if it were February
I think of fingernails and nail-biting
And half-whispered prayers
And Christianity
And of the earthquake that cracked the chair in the foyer.
I wonder if they have mountains in Idaho
And if beavers can swim faster than cheetahs can run –
What a silly question.
I think of indie pop
And its words of guilt
And of Tokyo on a summer night
And wonder why.
What is your favorite color?
Perhaps blue.
Rain become ocean when it pours in the Pacific.
Robins puff their chest, they would be biting their nails if they could.
I was five when learned the blue lines in my arms are blood.
Green is cherry stems and rose thorns and Jay Gatsby.
My most important set of eyes, healthy grass, trees that I choose not to climb.
The snot on the subway seat listens to the lady sing.
Maybe orange.
Sour candy and sunsets (I’ve never felt lonely during a sunset).
Koi ponds mean fancy houses and fancy houses are good for playdates.
Citrus kisses and healthy pirates.
Pink is my toy flute, silk pajamas, bathroom tiles.
The cherry blossoms have bloomed on 45th Avenue.
My cheeks turned pink last Monday around 4:00 pm.
What’s your biggest secret?
What day is it today? I can’t remember
between the horns and screeching bus brakes,
the square architecture of the Las Vegas skyline and
thrashy metal music-in-quotes blaring in
through my windows into the close air of my office,
where I am dreaming about partly cloudy
afternoons in Florence, pears and linen curtains,
honey, hot showers, and hurricanes–
or something else humid enough to buckle my knees,
shake me from dullness, collapse
the fortress I’ve built around myself since leaving
the comfort of home, the cerulean safety
of water, of wildflowers. Here there is only desert
dryness, three pm solitude,
the artificial lawns that drown me, make me
wish for a shovel to bury myself in sand, ask
who am I doing all of this for?
How can I improve myself?
-Florian Knollmann
It was noon on a tuesday
when I set out for the moon.
My calf rose like the quinoa
in my throat. To Nahville? No.
“Hey Jude” is still playing there.
To Pakistan? No (George Clooney’s
shadow still looms large). A
shirt in the main street: Jimi
Hendrix in blue print. It primarily
stinks here though. I roughed
my way onto the bus, past
Middle C and the Name of the Wind
to the Lunar Square. An
indecisive giraffe confronted me
by the oak from Nebraska. It
reminded me of the hot stove,
the trees I wanted to find in Alaska.
But I digress. The moon is my target,
my better self. Classic rock; Casablanca;
an earthquake. Psych! That all
happened in France. Paul McCartney
met Bjorn and the spoke of small things:
Coronavirus and Mom. The streets
of mediocrity led me to Chesley,
but guitar, sweetness, base still lie ahead.
Not procrastination. Poetry and the Caps
await me on the moon; I must rejoin
them. So I left behind my hindu
Bird of Prey, my couch, thinking
them obsolete, like watermelon.
I passed the adidas-striped rabbit
during the summer in the Arctic sea.
Better than seeing that on MySpace,
I suppose. Yet somehow I still wonder
if a sloth barks in June? My heart, my clay heart,
why did you leave me in the basement?
And how on earth will I make a poem out of this?
not going back.
when will release come for us?
asked the poet wandering
lost in the woods.
from across the rose beds
the sandalwood scent, contagion,
mammals straight on that morning blue.
the shades of mango trees paint
june as if I had never left behind your eyes—
steel, tar, moving on from saline touch
just as that frail girl from the party we met.
remember her feathers, her pacific smile
swimming endlessly across her lips,
no regrets from having taken up her place
in the chaise next to you.
now the birds can sing ella around me
no more moonlights in Vermont, neither falls
the red-crake and the tea pot I left in your kitchen
are now yours only—not going back to your body.
cajun regret, the news flash in my head amid high oaks:
he’s banned us again—no bus, no Amsterdam, no smile,
not going back.
the beaten path ahead is beige with mist rising north
the grass risks crossing—the tentativeness of a tennis match,
insecure. do you know if these colors, these bodies buried
under nature so vibrant fear too they’ll be forgotten?
falsehood. parakeets sing of joy now in major chords
and the polka-dot skirt your friend wore that Saturday night
drills my memory—recalls—of when we met in New York City.
not going back. but it’s different now—what’s in store for he who loves freely?
why are we here? to meet the sunrises of fridays? to take the train to normandy? to weather every earthquake as it comes and hope
that on the other side is sleep? animal sleep?
i see the dung beetle rolling its saturn shapes on garage floors,
i see the dog days & the poll days & the virus sick monsoon days and i welcome them too.
i can do this because i know that sometimes sunlight drips like honey over my head,
it runs down my jeans and over my toes and maybe this is the first bite to forgiveness,
to calling my mom and saying happy birthday, mom. i am putting it down. i am opening the wooden chest.
i am letting memory step out of my ribcage and maybe this is the antidote to loneliness,
to chewing on my cuticles until they bleed, to blue crowds and airport foxes and the ghosts that follow me on elm street.
in this story i am the protagonist, painting impressionist brushstrokes on piano keys. music with meaning. i refuse quiet.
in this story i am the bullet. i am the kitchen. i am the third grade gymnasium.
who is telling the story?