Three Poems by D.C. Wojciech
if you're trying to destroy a work of art.
invite the crowds to haggle over its merit.
frame it on a wall & try to fit there yrself.
the only problem with a universe in constant motion
is that i can't believe the voices in matchbooks anymore.
it's been nearly 2,000 years
and still nobody can bring Mouseion
back from the grave.
what will save us from the same fate
is what most men fear
in a room alone with themselves.
the men before me were all discussing saviors.
it is only right that i carry on tradition
by bringing strawberries into the kissing booth.
the sex of yr love is the mouth of the candle.
the other side of yr body of water
is a dove dipping its skull into the hidden air—
the flight of 10,000 monarchs through eucalyptus
will tell you nothing of the mind unless
you were there.
here in this city
where we kept more
than lies between our legs.
the tight rope leading from stomach to mouth.
the lotus springs forth from mud.
i will love you no matter how many
are next door on the overpass screaming
to the armies of ants in their craniums—
heaven is watching you walk across this room.
hell is this "dry" motel.
in my spirit i know we were made to work, fuck, dream & be holy.
if you come here begging to differ just know
i'll never stop holding hostage
this orb of light in my ribcage.
every time i walk past the museum
i dream of buying Van Gogh another ear
the wind feels up the thigh
of a cigarette on Broadway…
the Zen men & Zen women
stand at the bus stop clapping one hand
for the empty cars
the mind is still yet to be seen—
whether a pocket full of levers
can stop the revolving doors of yr life
depends more upon the price of barley
in remote Finnish villages
than the headlines will all tell you.
so much so that we as a species invent
invisible walls standing between syllables & conjecture
the potential for dream bodies
to continue careening
the surplus of destinies bouncing in space
cranial grapefruit twine globes altered returns magnanimous
, they’ll have to tear my lips from the secret air.
in order that the Molotov cocktails
for the night's uprisings
be made with only the finest Polish vodka
the distillery owner fired himself—
because those who preach peace
are many times over those who spread war.
blacking out in 1996 upon being told
that people are nouns—
waking up in 1988 on the other side of these mountains...
anywhere in the mind the Help Wanted signs
are glossed over with 2,000 years of Roman occupation.
it is only right—
a photogenic bare knuckle
in every photograph
of armored trucks.
if memory serves
is no way to start a sentence
even though on the 1st and 15th
nobody can faithfully question
whose or what god
you are currently praying to
D.C. Wojciech is the founder of Anvil Tongue Books, and is the author of The Longest Breath (Anvil Tongue, 2020). He resides in the Sonoran desert.