These exquisite corpse poems were written at Sanctuary Pub in Iowa City by Justine Retz, Eric Roalson, Stephanie Wilkinson, and Russell Jaffe:
#1
Sitting under a toadstool
sweating in the noon day sun
they pray for an alchemical rain
to a landfill idol, pariah of industrial housing
a Frankenstein--wire bed frame.
In a stark, vast room
the saxophone is the only voice
of reason, but the pipe organ is
becoming one with the merry-go-round.
A headless horseman appears;
It is better to gallop than to extrapolate
--sage advice from the mother in us all.
#2
The school house brick steamed.
A fog rises into the September air
and by October a fog drives itself to work, it
takes on a new name--a new identity.
Calling home,
ancient resonance of the choir
tires me more than the tremolo of
a pomegranate turning tangerine in the sunset.
Grapes dripping from the vine,
it is divine to sing across the web
to untapped URLs, my sweet
covered in melted brie juice.
#3
My primary refusal is to write anything about
the meaning of a rainbow over an
apocalyptic sky.
There is a fire in the chamber of tomorrow
so call today's fire chief--he's got it
in spades. The mushrooms on fire,
diamonds bounce in the bubble,
double the trouble of seduction
by introducing the TV, a remarkable
box of manipulation--a stargazer's paradise.
Tears flow openly
into the chalice of mercy.
#4
The rogue winks and moves across the bar
toward plastic spheres and D.I.Y stigmas.
The 7-Up bottles came flying, fizzing,
jasper colored beads scatter
like squirrels in the strobelight,
I convulse an adorable bravado,
an Ewok caught in a time machine--
Asteroids dance
around the coffin of silence,
the funeral home of loudness operates
oh-so-silently, spinning in darkness and
out of control.
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