CONJUNCTIONS: A Web Exclusive
The Constructive Phase
Before it begins, we take
everything that moves. Leave
remains for the dogs. Once
it begins, we take over chants and prayers. Lovely
scripts. We rip the head off
the horrible beast and fail to lose faith. Anchored
in planes beyond tangible dimension, unbranded
animals range beyond shame. Nonetheless fettered
by reflection. No shield in sight. A heavy wet.
My family’s involvement with the Americas began before the Revolutionary War, when Louis XIV repealed the Edict of Nantes.
Born behind Myself
I wish someone would diagnose me, run
trials and fill me full of pills. Tap
the longleaf yellow pine. Neither mystery
nor memory, but turpentine. A match
for the chiggers. I was born an old woman
the size of a button.
At Normandy, my father’s father would have been near home were it not for religion and would have been home were it not for war. The metal box he carried travels with me now.
if i is you is she is he is you
and me if she is you is me is
he if we is are is you is i are
me was is are is were are if
you is you is you is you if us
were are is you is me are we if
you if you if you if you if me
On the ground in Vietnam, the early stage, my father wrote my mother and his parents who counted down the months till my arrival and his return. He asked for scuba gear.
Round and round it spins.
Well now, that was an unintended
consequence. A new world emerges
from carelessness. Oh, the possibilities
once we realize the realm beyond the box. Revel
in the space carved from someone else’s
home. Precursors worm away at facsimiles,
substitutions. Peace rarely assuages conscience
at its core. Earth could care less.
Constant and almost indiscernible rhetoric frames the backdrop. Obscures the players. A low note.
White the silent places in wax. Eye
never again. An oxygen tank makes
a hiss, and the tide goes over the bar.
Carry teacups to the kitchen and wonder
how you know they are Spode. The girl
stands up in the deep end.
The Face of Autoreconocimiento
Not a quilt, but pieces on a plane. The fallen collect
on the floor. Diabolical heart. Torment cut out
paradoxes. A rock, a cord, a galleon. Finally
art arrived at torture. Listen America, in triplicate. Blinding
blues. Count the days of 1964. Do not stare at me woman
worn, a cockroach with a brain, tangled chicken. Sometimes
the pieces of rebar per se berate the sounds of crows. I would
love to lie down and sleep pink and yellow baobab. Bed down
in a park to commemorate the foundling.
Ashley David makes word–art–sound things and currently lives in Warsaw, Poland. Recent work has been featured in The Offending Adam and Hyperallergic.