Marco Maisto

                                                                                                               [an anti-cloud goes here.]   

 





 [color-drunk rain spins from a future-perfect iron night.

werewolf zazen inducer,
heart-attack leafpile,

I want more       bands of   slow motion
between us       .

grass-stained kneetops where mouths
should be.



an overactive mirror bursting
with afterimages

that push      at its edges                that give chase

[        ] after you.


a countryside made
of empty windows.




radiation you can hold
like a baton;














anything that can   rain         through you      .




bright blue

polygraph shavings

and cassette-tape grey lips


electrode-flowers and April nights go here                  . ]


























Machine-satori



                  Dear  Motion-shelter, Dear  Elusive  Catch.  Dear  Apparatus of  Capture.  Dear
                  Braided Wanderess,


                  Reverse-engineer a  rope.  Opsit. Natch.  Eye to eye. Our  readers have   yet to
                  become.  About  circles. Nautical  map. Sign  language  for bicycle. Your name
                  too: natch: no shoulders, 3 stems plummeting towards a dear descender dear
                  descender. Speaking  of  the anatomy  of  characters. Yes.  Brutal  telegraphy.
                  What  will  we find  when we  unfold  the  faces of  the ones  who impersonate
                  us every  day?  What will  we do  when we  meet our  own  creations, the ones
                  who    have    taken    to  writing   our    history?  Here,   the   word   “machine”
                  doesn’t mean  what  it  means  where  you  come  from; a  seduction  story at
                  the   event    horizon   of    the   self.   Toward   a    theory   of  ampersand   as
                  gyroscope. Break a rule. Be elsewhere with me. Let’s build a bomb.


























honey-simple cheats









                  There’s no reason this has to be  hard  yes  there’s lots. Wave.  Hello. Blow my

                  jacket off  and into  bits 8-bit  bits. You’re  fast  watch  this I‘m  100% listening
                  talk.  One  word. One  incendiary  word. Feel  your  word  become  a mountain
                  highway on stilts in your mouth.


                  Your blue arc light embraces my neck; I give you back nano-bees.

                  [up-down +up-down] + [left-right + left-right] + [B + A] + START


                  Tilt crouch  pick  me up  throw me over  the traffic stream  below. In turquoise

                  palm I’m dangling trees trees let’s reboot. Return to you deafening chirps kiss
                  your  crusher   lips   I’m  crushed.  Let’s  do  fireworks.  We  have  to.  Feel your
                  word become a seaside freeway on stilts in your mouth.


























Can you enlarge on that?

                  cassette-tape grey hips
                  cassette-tape grey hips
                  cassette-tape grey hips
                  cassette-tape grey hips
                  cassette-tape grey hips
                  cassette-tape grey hips
                  cassette-tape grey hips
                  cassette-tape grey hips
                  cassette-tape grey hips
                  cassette-tape grey hips
                  cassette-tape grey hips
                  cassette-tape grey lips


                  nervous thirdperson turnpike
                  nervous thirdperson turnpike
                  nervous thirdperson turnpike
                  nervous thirdperson turnpike
                  nervous thirdperson turnpike
                  nervous thirdperson turnpike
                  nervous thirdperson turnpike

                  an overlooked thing
                  an overlooked thing
                  an overlooked thing
                  lean closet blindfold
                  an overlooked thing
                  an overlooked thing
                  an overlooked thing
                  an overlooked thing
                  an overlooked thing




























Sierpinski Sponge





                                    Note that all  invoked things in this  room  will try to stare through you.
                                    Become   thicker,  infinitely   porous.  Separate  command   tones  from
                                    invisible things. Be the  rough thing with  soft human edges. And name
                                    things out loud.

                                    Then seduce their prayers, but only now that you are adept with smoke
                                    and hand   axes     that     have       yet

                                                         to be pulled

                                                                                                   into the metadata.



























Marco Maisto is the author of "The Loneliness of the Middle Distance Transmissions Aggregator," a poem that Bayou Magazine nominated for a Pushcart Prize in 2015. He studied poetry at the Iowa Writer's Workshop and now writes for a living in NYC. Check out his work now and soon in The Colorado Review, Drunken Boat, TYPO, Timber, Fjords, Spry, Wyvern Lit, Small Po[r]tions, and Pangyrus. See more @MarcoMaisto and MarcoMaisto.com.