New York Tyrant

by Jos Charles

Kelly Schirmann



The rain

distributes within the world

This implies a grammar  The map

maker implying

possible trees  He says

I follow the world  The old

figure of logic places

a public and what is possible

to promise another  Imagine

all the uses of a line

between here and yonder

Now outline

the figure of a bruise





A thing becomes


Rarely  A

girl fifteenish and

final the woman behind

deliberate eyes


of her exemplary eyes

And there

is here design  How who gets

and in whose line  A stall

and its keepers  

Our hurt built

no scarcity of it  Enough

to say there were eyes

then  Facilities

we were wading to





I was

okay  In the stall of

world  Not history

but I

when I say I

mean this bit

of world


So away from me

We don’t carry history

we foam

it  We are it

History I mean

is an antagony

of two hands in the sink

something foaming

And a woman saying

this is not your

room  And alone

you wanting to be

a thing just






I don’t care what

you believe  

about ash

how it settles

to some

thing less than form  Tonight

there is only

wood  Its structure

black night

ached with blue

What we have

to do





A creature of such purchase

when dead  Whose purchase

to mourn the dead  Remember

2014  September

or November  Any month

the same really  Like anyone

working at the street  A bar  

Free drinks

from the creeps at the bar

But together

A laugh lodged in the air

Taste of blood copper rain

This existence  Sister

a kind of theft  Wanting

nothing going anywhere  When

you left the rains

again picking

up  I haven’t been the same





With grace I am

with you

in your labor

until the last  And I am joyful

today for its structure  

Machinery clipping the master’s

hand  How impossible it is

the trees have changed

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