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Our Birds Do Not Sing

by Dale Going

 

hey you of plumage-plundered hats and egg collections
in the midst of pastoral annihilation a neo-bucolic beginning


might be made a sweeter song swell somnolent narcotic
twittering through trash & twigs to the tunes of extinct arias


sure it’s appropriate to appropriate what we had before
remainder of our richer treasure as purveyors of ruined places


our snug coverts our terrestrial habits our toxic desirings
so famed in song and story which so lavishly spoil o we who


revel in excess shall we add to our pilfered possessions
nostalgia for the revenant longing for a simple death painless


obliteration from indigestion or indignation unchecked
will we trill as we thrill to the subsequence the consequence


of us:     so long      ta ta      tweet tweet.     la la
the bad translation said the dead had “passioned on”

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Ardors Whose Raucous Verdure Indulge

by Dale Going

a deluge of esoteric / slash / excessive info as for example/ one lux equals light from a full moon
overhead at tropical latitudes / one foot candle equals ten point seven lux / how is that illuminating /

 

each part of a conversation has a position in space/hear and now is like a pen & ink illustration
of itself / already dead by the time it's drawn / just as I’m thinking about being present /ever new


questions pop up on my mental screen / the spores of a pale gramarye / What was the idea /

that they had that you didn’t? / That sadness is the necessary part./ And what [pray tell] was yours?


////?>: “ ?>< X“ / interruption / Fanny my familiar is back / and setttled on my chest /
ppawing at my face / making it difficult to type / or see what I;m tyubg / over her silk yhead


O the dividing attentions of this gorgeously distracting world / I think of the continuing
how it spreads out in ripples / I’m not at the lake so I’ll be rising to a different dawn /


not startled awake by the sun shaking my shoulder through the window’s cleavage of trees /
aspens or poplars / all spangle and shadow and spotted blue treasure // treasure this //


is a general emphasis / there was no going forward living our life / on that other trajectory /
just the end of the peninsula / I don’t know what’s next but it’s not what was ><

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Dale Going is poet and book artist living in Manhattan and the Adirondack Park of upstate New York after a previous lifetime in Northern California. Her work includes the poetry collections, As/Of the Whole (SFSU Chapbook Award; selected by Brenda Hillman), The View They Arrange (Kelsey St. Press, Poets' Prize nomination), and the chapbooks/artists books Leaves from a Gradual (Potes&Poets), Aerial Perception, Or Less, She Pushes With Her Hands (Em Press). She has received recognition from the Fund for Poetry, California Arts Council, Seattle Bumbershoot Festival, and Resident Artists programs at Yaddo, Djerassi, Vermont Studio Center and Soaring Gardens. Her award-winning Em Press letterpress editions of poetry by women are archived internationally in the special collections of major university and public libraries. Recent work appears in VOLT, Blood Orange Review, The Banyan Review, Griffel, Stone Canoe, and in exhibitions pairing poetry with contemporary artworks at the BRAHM Museum in Blowing Rock, North Carolina and the Fenimore Museum in Cooperstown, New York. Her work is online at poetryfoundation.org and dalegoing.com. She occasionally posts on Facebook, and Instagram.​

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