corina copp





The Smog


I’ve hit the wagon again, that time,

overestimated. Breathing egret. The peace

of coral, the color, feeds artist borrowers,

the recent manmade smoke and mirrors

we call sedentary shock—I’m flying

to the mansion, no flying away from

the rapist to a hill, sea level shifts, see?

I’d like to keep my bank job, hold your hand

when it sits there. All spirit gone to flesh.

Sell an acre to an allergic. Write me off

as a philo-melon, seldom-right-singing.

Tereus, avenger, did you have possessive?

Where, where, where? Where where where?

My my, it’s (my my) it’s mighty, oh My Mine.



The Breeze


Sonny I can’t feel the pain I’ve gotten me

a real ladylike whoosh of air it’s done hit me upside

down—the forest, the gentry, the lost, we’re all

captives here in the hootenanny

tooth gap awaiting a tongue. Number

each and every suitor. One, awake. Two, too

awake, ethical. Barely torque the tanker

but slide the slick before the oil so the opacity

recalls—this doesn’t feel right, does it—

I want to think like you, the you of shapes,

not the you of sizes. Integrity?

To say that something is adequate

enough is a tautology. Is already

is but careful. Ah is it just sap? Code word: funny

we all change into birds: some flee

or knock on wood, or cloud on cuckooland.

Quick before belief quickens the dead!

S’okay. I can’t fear the heat o’ the sun nor reason.

If scorned I be blurring blue yes, blue no,

’tis the sky should feel this. If secure, arrow

different worlds. Fear no more, the lightning flash!

While winter’s rages dock at sea,

the indefinite, head-down-brain-up crash of surety

repeats itself in different words.



The Cry


The factory of the qualified man beats its neighbor the leaning tower of mademoiselle’s

highest mind. “bound by assimilations.” surely to be art, voiceless, would be nice,

futurist sans electricity. WAH-WAH-WA/Ha. worm-intestine-luncheon-cocktail

-reform. results attained in open air, no glass walls, ceilings, separate beds. the illusion is

the transcendence, but its great lie, art’s mystery, is hierarchy battered at the base

of the temple. break fourth wall, o hell, a person-to-person sale, o seasons stranded

in allusion, the utilitarian snow, the watery spring, summer’s vanity, the ottoman/toilet.

portray the windmill. whoosh your hands around my desire for desire’s object.

my object rings the dinner triangle for I’m stuck beneath the plum tree kneading a history,

stripping leaves to their root and brandishing grass for nothing, till it’s a party, the dump

of mud, renewable for the next worker perhaps. my city, my city of shapes and sizes,

cooked and done, freestanding irritant unicycles everywhere.





Dear, please accept this note

as an introduction to a new way of seeing things!

Irony notwithstanding, each character

must fulfill his or her own destiny.

When ghosts arrive, the murderess must stop

lamenting and participate

in Waiting for God. Here she may come

to a conclusion. She made it all up, after all:

the stairs, the stars, the army. If her mate

should look good in blood, forgive

the red light at the end of the tunnel.

It simply knows what it’s doing! If red light meant

our end, much less struggle would come

in the duration. The black hole?

Must we speak of it now as we hurry

to fork ordinariness to its duly note?

Dear, please accept this as a bar in front

of your face. I can see through to

the other side! Scenes enacted, bodies tumbling

through streets. Graffiti to speech, doll parts

to kickstands, knee-highs to scaffolding.

A man pushes his wife’s wheelchair.

In her lap are styrofoam cities.

In the white mass are blinking gaps.



The Time It Was Real


This does not exist—

an epilogue of limit.

Any offering shall embitter—(for

me?) relate in its crime a fallow mate,

fond of a ceiling’s weighty fall

when hands cuckolded by logic

miss mouth o, but head can embrace—

if this truth, sense, be not careless.

A fear of death, or, love—self or burden

may chew a space in time the shape of her

render body a circus the mad of her

mind a prototype the print of her (or vice-

verse) for theriomorphism halts

at human qualities and to what end

bird will need a servant as it did as man,

woman, chorused—and -ing, as always


An hourglass’s should to a board’s does

is hope to action, shape to person.

Swift gifting in the mouth survives—

despite transient (i.e. human)qualities.

Any love’s a face’s actor’s reason

for transient qualities, when blue

is non-directional, or sky loses allusion

and red sleep sleeps by a body

of imagination—hourglass by board.

As they held one another,

flew beneath their floor, a

when tolls chime war—

as text climbs tree—