The Poetry Section: Michael Schiavo, 'Scarlett Johansson on the Fourth of July'
by Mark Bibbins, Editor
This week in The Poetry Section, two new poems by Michael Schiavo: Scarlett Johansson on the Fourth of July and We All Operate in a Ghost World Where We Are Maharajah.
Scarlett Johansson on the Fourth of July
Hey the island is way out there. My Captain
you collapse the particulars to crystalline
epiphany the color of Rome in May
the warmth of 2,000 years washing over kitten &
cougar the same. Arapaho birthmark
the new Animal Collective makes my mind.
My Friend you are a skilled hunter
the roses bombing the pyramid serve
your patriotic lips. All around you knives
of sun serve up bountiful banana perfume.
Told the man I wanted a raven
roosting on my shoulder when I woke
all I get some crappy lights green
streaks of melon-rays bathe my crotch
nuzzling like the Immortal’s corgis.
Ah so this is the empire what the empire
brings me so much wonderful why recall
how I complained! My Siren silky
milk-white garden under lavender moon
light lodged in my mind marvelous
invention but in reality you are here on top
of me. Woman running from no more
straight to the arms of maybe
sometimes you concoct dreams about
me & you & lions emerging from tall grass.
From the time of witches you
emerge your penis as long as the President’s
at least when she still had one. My Domina
I await the future with open arms &
sister here comes my summertime.
But that happened. This. I’m talking
about all the advantages a black man has
in this country in this real radical age
John Lee Hooker. My point exactly.
He rescued those iguanas from
the terrorist librarians at Great Adventure.
Repaired a spaceship & they flew
him to Saturn. Collected nebulae
in a firefly jar returned to Coahoma
where there he built the largest reptile farm
in the western hemisphere raising
the stakes. Shimmy shake my Long Love
a month of smooth-fucking. Vampires
couldn’t even vanquish the man
had so much power. I saw him once
at the Varsity. He called me by my name.
We All Operate in a Ghost World Where We Are Maharajah
I am before you tiny as a bird as the tiniest bird
you can hold in your silver palm of rose.
In the midnight a little noise go off
in the forest of your mind & very
far away a lighthouse keeper wakes
to the sound of another sound you make
when you’re not making your always sound.
Winter. Not just any old. I couldn’t call you
Doris if I tried. Manu Ginóbili. Too many lions
surround your heart even on the sunniest day.
When entering another country you must
size up the anatomy of the architecture &
take your time doing. A moonlit garment
yet to be encouraged. Stop boring us
& get to the real. Whatever you mean
I mean it a little nefarious. Last one
to make me delirious delivered Montana.
How many suspicious packages must arrive
’til you conjure me through your XBox 360.
No time for footnotes when the new dawn
battles me for your attention. What chance
have tiny birds? Gray in the pink lemon
light over you sleeping inside
the traffic outside an ocean to never near.
Above you circle osprey. Above their squalls
a million astronauts ride triceratops
in what may turn out to be an extremely
valuable piece of contemp’ry art. No soothsayer I.
Save for the arena in which we two now square.
There is over your shoulder some kind of
werewolf. And as you’re distracted
finally the aubergine curtain rises where she is
the pirate ship come to capture you home.
I fear you say I hate to see the evening sun go down.
On this blood-dimmed shore with the relative
deep feelings shared by those with common sense
who have insight about desire compassion
the stupid things no one pays money for
I tell you wow I love the nighttime. Cuz
if not in dreams how do we summon
the day won’t come when I see you never.
I see everything always & everyone a little better
the sun is a fox in the henhouse.
We fulfill one another without
one another even. Wonderful in the night.
Energy in the night. Something to be said for
not ever being alone. The moon comes out electric
your mouth when you sigh is the Lariat
of Truth in the hands of them lions.
Strange days I say what chance have tiny birds?
Michael Schiavo is the author of The Mad Song. He is editor of The Equalizer (coming 2010), a co-editor of Tight, and contributing editor to CUE. His poetry has appeared in Forklift, Ohio, The Normal School, Sixth Finch, jubilat, La Petite Zine, and Fou. He lives in Vermont.
You may contact the editors at [email protected].