Five Poems

who

what if we ran out of
words?
all we have
is our little lives,
this is how you make a
thing
(i was once made)
does it contains all?
on the originator’s
birthday
there is a static full sound
from my rooftop
children’s choir
they sing at the bats
overhead
“i don’t want you to not
be here”
while some star
dictates true north’s
skew
upon leaving
they sing “bey be be bey bey,”
the children don’t know
what
tuesday is
or does, instead
they chase a
luminary arch, cry
symbols
half of time is sleeping,
driving, playing,
schlepping,
sleighing, stepping,
draining, driveling,
dragging, slipping,
graying, making daylight
was measured by
the presence or absence
of mothers,
grandmothers,
moonlight
was where letters
were written backwards
upside-down entwined
inside
looking at the small
things,
consistently
in old men’s eyes,
magnets
deny
then pull when reversed,
little girls
never see so many things
again
hundreds of whirring
sounds, iridescent
dust
possibly only visible to
little eyes
i will whisper
prophetic words
about the end of music,
starboard facing

what

representations might as
well have been
real (they were real,
and they
were also
representations)
i was little
there was a class about
flowers
and there was a class
about dinosaurs, there
was everything in the
world to learn, absorbed
through the
navel, exuding through
the skin, there
were likes and dislikes,
laid out
in rows, morphed and
reversed over
time, cut cords, there
were combinations
of children, faces melting
into each other,
their bodies back into
fetuses
boys and girls become other
ambiguities
other people, other auras,
auroras, but
why nourish words, worlds?
to track
such transformations is
exhausting, an
unending
covert labor fueled by
diagonal spying,
helixes churning,
growing,
unfolding their zoetrope
just imagine what they
mean: duncels
wharfs or quays, a
guilty luck
what i’ve forgotten i even
remember
i will be a two-masted
vessel by way of the
transitive
and intransitive, looking
at the cargo:
the olsen twins, hotdogs,
something about
uncertain body
temperatures,
tiger woods at
the airport tarmac, cups
of coffee,
graham crackers,
i will be
polaris

when

there was a first kiss
inside an egg, (before
cracking
open it poisoned kids
who still
play,
i play) then and even
now
much later
blue jersey shorts and
bears
emerged from empty shells
and asked
for help on behalf of a
young woman typing, she
needed to
double space her letter
appealing to
the court, by then i was
a choir of rooftop church
children
unrecognizable as all
them,
the other
half of time was made of
tirid slptt, we were tirid,
they
slptt, tirid, slptt, tirid slptt,
tearing splits,
tired spit, tear, id,
slit
the dolly winch secretly
shaved her
legs shuffling
on the deck making
desire lines, skittering
back to uncertain
growth, accustomed to
full, new attention
but it was a nice day
and getting nicer
backwards waves
uncrashing
shake away to eyes
rolling,
finally
glorious puking relief,
a morning seasickness
my rooftop children’s
choir
narrate their
experience by growth
soprano what it’s
like to be a baby, what
it’s like to elongate your
limbs
they unfurl scrolls: wholly
unwritten body

where

polaris is actually two
stars
(north
and west)
from time
immemorial
i will be a crucible
typology
i name a dead star oscar
i lived my whole life
in a t-shirt that said “no
matter where you go,
there you are”
how many friends
do i have today,
consistently just as
many as
the direction as the crow
flies
where am i? yet another
half of time is made of
further, endless
measurements,
speculations,
inference,
surveillances, tension
frankensteined from
nouns,
wounds, verbs, ease,
there was a safe way
of the florist matrix, there
was picking
up and being picked up
again
and again by different
people who
were attached to the belly
nerves
long before november 30,
2000, 7:24
pm, there was a sick
girl’s
birthday, dry cake my
rooftop children’s
choir sing “liek liek” lie,
kill,
eek, in the grand
scheme, there
was a lot of time before
this, bracketed and
encircled by
daily oral learning,
blinking, shirking,
shrinking,
i mastered words that
use short a’s

why

incomprehensibility never
takes its leave on
our elongated way, we
thank you
you sincerely start
tomorrow,
mid-evening
hand, ark, mask, star, man,
war, sad,
which sounds mean
goodness? and
which its opposite? answer:
the song gradient
rumbles down with
reasons, blames
it on clouds, who weren’t
meant to speak,
but learned the
morality
of language, decided to sing
instead 


Lily Rose Kosmicki is a person, but sometimes feels like an alien in this world. She suspects she frequently experiences a form of hypergraphia and/or graphomania and she is obsessed with language and the body. She is working on translating years and years of notebooks into poetry, makes cut-up collage poem-paintings, and illustrates creatures with accompanying poems that are (sort-of) for children. By trade she is a librarian at the public library and by night she is a collector of dreams. Her zine Dream Zine recently won a Broken Pencil Zine Award for Best Art Zine 2018.