Mark DuCharme
I Am Not Your Dictionary
Heck, plenty of scumbag emulsion
’Til gnarled bugs limit the banter
To a fine seething, & rigorous
Polyglots montage Rosa Luxem-
burg’s glistening visage to aspic canisters
While the crinkling moon is yellowed
Don’t revisit those lurid parlays
Which jolt the utmost revivifying residue
While debonair gringos chortle
Like basset hounds in sweaters
Wanting to inlay things (can’t spell)— & ha!
(I.e., “initiative”) upkeep (gasp!)
Then amble past the swag the blowsy
Groove & those    torqued registers
Which jerk    then plummet all I amp
Like comportments of gagging.— &, If I froze there
How would you know that, you balletic machinist
You meme-noir that knows no flame? Nostalgic
Recoil for the days of phone books
Will get you zip spiffy fedoras
Through the windward ancient traffic
While the yellowed moon is privateplasticized
Like an iconographer’s transcendent buzzkill
In death’s bitter canyons
A Cloud on Paper
The vetters cleaved in unison
With a demure look papering a book
In rotten salvos
A skittishness only the wicked see
Through first night’s frost
In the sun’s pink bristling
The house was wracked with perfume
A soft scum folding the easements
While unrepentant voices galvanized
The play group, whose strategy up ’til then had been
To avoid bodily functions of any kind
While wheezing gently & suffering an astigmatism. It did not work.
Instead, the bumpkins clawed their way from the fruit cellar
& Dribbled about the hyaline bungalow
In rapt inattention to its slipperiness, which eased them
Out of their platonic misconceptions &, gradually at first,
Foisted them into the raw light of misgivings
& Doubt, that soon festered all over their affects
Like an inconsolable rash. It was Tuesday
& The hammocks had been washed with rain
& Dried in the noon sun, so that everyone
Was ready for the party to commence, if only
Armando hadn’t forgotten to invite all the laggards
Distracted as he had been with dim pleasantries
& The linguistic study of jingles. Then, a note was found:
Who reads this shall grow dim
& Fumble about the winnebago
Looking for a spoon. Dark clouds rose, & then we gathered
At the coincidence, but still thought it wise to run
Away, knowing evil as we do.
               CODA
What can evil tell
                              Before we do
In the rain that kisses
                              All our births
Where storms conflict
                              What we most constrict
Bereft horizons botching
                              All desire that feeds
Us autumn
                              Which is no longer here
Until we fumble, then slip
                              In all
Constructions of
                              Our fatal knowing
The Room Where I Am Not
Mark DuCharme is the author of several volumes of poetry, mostly in print but a few online, ranging from chapbooks and pamphlets to book-length collections to his magnum opus, The Unfinished: Books I-VI (2013). Most recently, Counter Fluencies 1-20 appeared as part of the print journal The Lune (2017). We, the Monstrous: Script for an Unrealizable Film is forthcoming from The Operating System in spring, 2018. His poetry has appeared in numerous journals both in print and online. A recipient of the Neodata Endowment in Literature and the Gertrude Stein Award in Innovative American Poetry, he lives in Boulder, Colorado.
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I Am Not Your Dictionary
Heck, plenty of scumbag emulsion
’Til gnarled bugs limit the banter
To a fine seething, & rigorous
Polyglots montage Rosa Luxem-
burg’s glistening visage to aspic canisters
While the crinkling moon is yellowed
Don’t revisit those lurid parlays
Which jolt the utmost revivifying residue
While debonair gringos chortle
Like basset hounds in sweaters
Wanting to inlay things (
(I.e., “initiative”) upkeep (gasp!)
Then amble past the swag the blowsy
Groove & those    torqued registers
Which jerk    then plummet all I am
Like comportments of gagging.— &, If I froze there
How would you know that, you balletic machinist
You meme-noir that knows no flame? Nostalgic
Recoil for the days of phone books
Will get you zip spiffy fedoras
Through the windward ancient traffic
While the yellowed moon is private
Like an iconographer’s transcendent buzzkill
In death’s bitter canyons
A Cloud on Paper
The vetters cleaved in unison
With a demure look papering a book
In rotten salvos
A skittishness only the wicked see
Through first night’s frost
In the sun’s pink bristling
The house was wracked with perfume
A soft scum folding the easements
While unrepentant voices galvanized
The play group, whose strategy up ’til then had been
To avoid bodily functions of any kind
While wheezing gently & suffering an astigmatism. It did not work.
Instead, the bumpkins clawed their way from the fruit cellar
& Dribbled about the hyaline bungalow
In rapt inattention to its slipperiness, which eased them
Out of their platonic misconceptions &, gradually at first,
Foisted them into the raw light of misgivings
& Doubt, that soon festered all over their affects
Like an inconsolable rash. It was Tuesday
& The hammocks had been washed with rain
& Dried in the noon sun, so that everyone
Was ready for the party to commence, if only
Armando hadn’t forgotten to invite all the laggards
Distracted as he had been with dim pleasantries
& The linguistic study of jingles. Then, a note was found:
Who reads this shall grow dim
& Fumble about the winnebago
Looking for a spoon. Dark clouds rose, & then we gathered
At the coincidence, but still thought it wise to run
Away, knowing evil as we do.
               CODA
What can evil tell
                              Before we do
In the rain that kisses
                              All our births
Where storms conflict
                              What we most constrict
Bereft horizons botching
                              All desire that feeds
Us autumn
                              Which is no longer here
Until we fumble, then slip
                              In all
Constructions of
                              Our fatal knowing
The Room Where I Am Not
Among the noodling Nothing The climate hid At some kind of stillness Out in smoke Fetish broom Undergone a great shoe Enough rev blunt simple Something else said In back of standing | Bulk feathers Cake eat radius In the corners On the rails Until you’ve forgotten It seems Hid at the corners You will excuse Clad in brightness Further up the | Await the radiant To what Until dusk settles & Where I go In back of the stack where To me that I’ve Enough rev Me darling while I What the thunder Grid |
Mark DuCharme is the author of several volumes of poetry, mostly in print but a few online, ranging from chapbooks and pamphlets to book-length collections to his magnum opus, The Unfinished: Books I-VI (2013). Most recently, Counter Fluencies 1-20 appeared as part of the print journal The Lune (2017). We, the Monstrous: Script for an Unrealizable Film is forthcoming from The Operating System in spring, 2018. His poetry has appeared in numerous journals both in print and online. A recipient of the Neodata Endowment in Literature and the Gertrude Stein Award in Innovative American Poetry, he lives in Boulder, Colorado.