Approaching-Religious Moraine -- Joanna Fuhrman
"without god there is no god"
A telephone is too anthropomorphic to be any use
as a religious icon. Likewise the ocean. Mama Mama.
Mood enhancing field lines haul a radiant warn beginning
into the present we shun to approach ourselves: mad needs
need wild honesty snow tuffs growing fractious throughout
the daisy patch past future falling thoughts where the not-
poem only only only only words and free of them or us
needs us less than we want to not want ice cream-(them?)
Song, I hate your demands! The thought of being lonely
is more and more shame. Cry in a public restroom then
read falling petals on the crashed eye's anemic opalescent shore.
"No island is a private language" they say. Slants of crocus
red pierces with a brazen loveliness like an early kind of Christmas
flickers for the Jews: chirpy, plucky, joy! Andy Warhol's brand
of hipster lipstick, reinvented from the grave for the lipless-wonders
of a New York we all love to hate? An idea for the new 1906.
Imagine it: the original first piece of buttered bread. I bet that tasted yum,
freed from memory's icky taint. I want that, that green green plate.
Factual Sunlight Madame! Two grains of sand in my hand: not in some
woman's pale hand first; they are nothing like these words I use to
order coffee or to attempt to pray. They are these geese, dividing
the sky into a kind of non-abstract grid, or even like the blessed
wallpaper designer growing inappropriately blissed-out, giddy
from drawing over and over again so many of the same same bird.