Next spring I am every dead thing

Glass, conceits, hot in the frozen tundra, a tincture like heraldry

Next season brilliant-edged, sound like music,

the clicking of bitter sweet gum tree by the woodpecker’s beak.


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Atop, the net of unworn leaves

Some of them childish ones

some woven in the cap of their parents

above others: Maple, Ginko Biloba,

Pretend more than a few resembled

green coffins

Were things askance,

like green sloths at the mercy of the wicked

Who could undermine their age.

Elongated crumpled edges,

In the Fall held dominion

brittled by the elements: air, sea, rain,

an Exodus crackled by acorns, wicked, shell-horned,

crept along at mercy, elemental:

Pools of leaves lay below

askance. on top of the gaping gullet of forests,

pandered the shift for impartial light.

Homeless boats of emigrant…

Colt Chant

The evil of the identity politic

Is the cool glen of a river

Darkly, whale like shimmer,

Cold is the element of fear

The fall blue jay migration

Dazzles the botany of buildings

For the moment there is all: mystic,

Color blue, monarchs like lions mane

everywhere, I am here accepting my fate

In the outer regions of an idea,

The sound I hear I mistake, how

Like the ferry to an island far from shore

Is not the identity politic I fear.

Maine Sabine Seagull, Machias

were all visitors back then.

We held commune. Gulls carried

the scent of fried-smelling, off Machias,

resort, 1777 patriots in between canon-ball banking

coasts, siting up north in New Brunswick, hold-outs.

Rough-sounding, wearied, packed vans now tortoise-

Rimmed doctors pass the old saw-mill factories,

smell of saline seaweed, bunkers sardine-canning

factory, the gulls were patrons

Of the symphony. Do they speak French?

The caws in the parking lot

the riff to a music of the sea, pole-to-pole, historical

naval bond ghosts to board, wood planks

dipping wings one week to the next in fog,

forged inhabitants write a postcard

to Old England, we have wings, Sabine gulls,

fight the sooty shearwater out on the topography

the black dark waves on the shelf scrawled with the words

a spaceship can see: we are all on our way back

To an unassailable place we own.

Returning- Bryant Park

The waxy leaved begonias

are all in full bloom.

In the sunshine they glisten like water.

An American Redstart

has been zip-lining between the London Planes.

A Grey Catbird with chunks of feather missing was hiding

by the birdbath.

The beehives in the northwest corner, named Nectar and Ambrosia,

are humming and a Northern Waterthrush was chicken-walking underneath.

Leaves (n.) eats, shoots, leaves, a grammar of exclusion; encouraging shady behavior

This net of leaves has woven the weave of unworn trees.

The leaves are askance,

a gullet gaping at the intricate elongated older ones.

A faint pooling panders the spotty light.

The leaves pick up the swell of homelessness,

They are joints joisted by which the atmosphere can blister the ozone away.

You seem shady — a blanched limb willing

Held the palm of younger ones, healed.

A reunion with stragglers, I am not the hulk, green,

betrayed by mother’s reunion with wind;

Grudges I do not hold, but only the swell of…

Landscape (n): much like a pastel (or paisley?) monotone

The submissive land is a swash of monotone:
Cobwebs off rusty fences,
Agonized seed pods thud their dry heat.

The decades long church bell
Now-a slow pumping.
In truth the tense chorus of robins
Release the maple swelling.

Buddy: (v.) a careless incantation, authenticity

Then, buddy comes along.
Give me: Dog ripping leg on gravel road,
Give me: to and fro, wolf on fire trail confirmed by valley.

Pitiful aching me, I hear dogs
travel in packs at night.
Someone dares: I hear undomesticated baying at the inanimate horizon.

Dogs plunder the uninhabited landscape: tree, scree, star
like hounds on the trail of a hare,
or tear a shrew from its hole, or macerate in innards,
or like an Orca flip a seal pup,
head-over-heals in the moonlight.

Buddy, black lab,
You proudly returns home, gangster-like, sporting, raging along the avenue,
jaw clenched over a wet mouse.
no one master home to greet you.
Buddy, listen up, predatory dogs
only mate at night and are not to be seen.

Buddy, you are unfamiliar to the familiar townsfolk they will tell you to turn down your music or call the authorities.
Buddy, you are ludicrous, but being basically, the mayor of the wilderness,
you are an irregular visitor.

Buddy: (adj.) free, unchained

Buddy each time I have come here,
you have wandered to the place where
you are here: a killer, drinking from local waterholes, unseemly and descending to fight against incipient injustice
Buddy, we believed you, we wished you were here,
like a superhero, laughing in the face of pets within at windows.
Buddy, the torn up mounds of earth north of town in the back of the gymnasium carry your smell like blood and werewolf, like wanderlust, like ephemera men only touched the surface of.

Buddy: (n.) an end-scene, an impossibility

Buddy, it’s getting late our reconnaissance mission has hit an impasse our other halves are waiting. They will think we are cheating.
I saw you once. At an impasse,
Gambling with risk,
starving, desperation.
There has to be more to this, you asked, red-eyed and still serene .
No. Buddy. I will not forget your name.
You and I are some kind of undead, kicked out with the other half, those smelling of skunk and quarry.

Buddy I’m happy I met you. …

Father warned me don’t dive deep: if I owned a quaint little nest-infested barn,

I would sit all day, white on white rimmed nocturnal disks

writing spiritual poems, like the Barn Owl or just like a Ghost,

to involve her, O Eros, come at me fool, I do my grief at night

this is just like the opposite of fuel and entropy, in me sits a mud jar of empathy,

and that is like the opposite of vulture, the sharp screech of hatred.

After the second divorce, my father returned in Spanish, a terrible leap

into the privacy of darkness, Psyche, I set out to spread my wings and transgress…

In Maine: Killdeer

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We pig-roasted and pretended

to be natives. Tiki-torches

and broad Latinate plants seduced

the flies that pretended to be bees,

for fear, or fear of losing humility.

Intrepid inflammatory thoughts

occurred to the youngest one.

The intellectual offered, “it was

a family, depending

on what you meant.”

Hold on, dear, hold on

the Irish man shouted

from the Cape after he charted

a boat into the vacuity

of some churned up Cod

near the giant plan of Boston.

A long-legged Killdeer sprinted

illustriously down a valley

of farms. The new old car

was masqueraded,

Barnum Brothers-like,

down a Wal-mart.

Piping Plover: Combing New-Symbolist


The strangest thing of all, or Pessoa would claim,

Is that there is no hidden meaning,

That the symbolic branch of the Sour Gum Tree

Near the Hempstead railroad station — is just that

A branch — cragged, dark, trite, overwhelming.

It is vague like the thing described to be the Targus

That descends from Spain to Portugal

Roaring but a diminished thing compared to

The communal stream, the shepherd knows

He could be baptized by it, washer-women cleansing spirit


The dunes of Montauk before the storm

Glistening with a solitary piping plover, pale and…


The Whale’s Garden by

Jonathan Andrew Perez is a published poet. He has been selected by the Virginia Quarterly Review, published in Junto Magazine, and Silver Needle Press

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