Dusty Neu

above genola

 

                          outstork the stork & overgranite
                          granite when you sea urchin or
                          dove my shoulder sockets when i
                          hand on towards the lathe or
                          swinging around a machete when
                          on horseback in a salt bog i hurl a
                          rock at a stork & knuckle at those
                          lower registers of loveliness


























                          of course much of the march of
                          silkworm was motion towards
                          the finger the feast of san
                          marziano & i on my steed do
                          swing around a machete by a tree
                          as the sun sinks my beast breath
                          & beat my chest breath & slink
                          back & lick my golden buttons


























                          with looking & looking like lakes
                          on fire eyes loose the sun & then
                          my tongue writhing in the salt pit
                          meets the char of a birch branch
                          gentler than i sink into the mud
                          think longer of my fingernails &
                          tenderly grip a bogwood bowing
                          like the softer bits of a ship

























                          & from that mud i lift me up my
                          shoulders from frozen as much as
                          cocktail glass warms the weather
                          little as set as once ear cartilage
                          in a uterus as quieter rain this
                          goat met the zeal of a man in a
                          green field with flowers with
                          floodlights & the little homes

























                          the sweat man & the sweat men
                          the many basement load of men
                          do leave their machetes by the
                          door & blanch their almonds with
                          a so so lonesome & so so sickly
                          without even a measure to glean
                          of pleasingness these men do
                          stroke their scruffs & cough a bit

























                          the last stone man or the very last
                          chips of man stone scattered
                          before my fire door lower leaf
                          toned lingual & trickle in the ear
                          cheers me on do like a duke who
                          promptly threw himself nude into
                          a ravine please please please i
                          need a thing to press my lips into


























Dusty Neu is a poet and translator born and raised in rural California. He co-translated Alessandro de Francesco’s Remote Vision from the Italian (Punctum Books) and his poetry has appeared in VOLT, Pear Noir!, and 3am. He lives and works in Rhode Island.