My Private Interstellar
by Ali Asadollahi
1.
O, dim sparkles
Late stars
Light intervals
-between our eyes
and what befalls-
O, Millions and millions and millions
Distance in distance in distances,
This endless line
Will be bent
And the death
Adjoins
Two ends.
2.
The mirror…
My black hole, it was.
There was gravity and gravity
And whatever passed by it
Fell in the midst of it.
The death;
Before me, it was:
.I fell in to I.
3.
Silence:
The singularity, indeed.
Billions of billions of galaxies of words
In a willing-to-bang throat
The silence of mountains
The silence of skies
The silence of the man -who knows, is gonna die-
– Tell me what you did.
Silence.
[The singularity, you read.]
BIO
Born in 1987, Ali Asadollahi is the composer of six poetry books and the winner of some distinguished domestic poetry awards, such as Iran’s Journalist Society Award (2010). He is a permanent member of the Iranian Writers’ Association and currently studying for an M.A. degree in Persian language and literature at Tehran University. So far, some of his poems have appeared in Hayden’s Ferry Review, Roanoke Review, Palaver Journal, Alchemy Journal, and The Persian Literature Review.
ARREST
by RE DRUM cadre
Embarrassment
of riches
& yet we still
wrap ourselves
in cellophane.
To escape just
to be caught again.
Bad synesthesia
keeps us up.
Practice spitting bitch
in the dark.
They said:
“Put your hands up
for the bubbles.”
They said:
“Put your hands up
where I can see them.”
And the summer
was orange.
And the summer
was over.
·
Running always
a cramp,
body
question-
can I run/
should I run—
Rub the calf.
To the feet?
Already a light above.
Should I run:
“Should I run?!”
·
As if he lived
exclusively
in darkness,
surfaced
only at night.
As if some
nocturnal thing.
The sequence
hard events
to parse
beyond
the triggering kiss
we know comes first.
Next, the soldiers
rush from right—
iron-black arm
claws for throat
beneath
the traitor’s furrow—
conscience—
drive the ensemble
left, into
the Evangelist:
stumbling, scrambling,
beseeching blind—
upturned eyes ablaze,
his cape
a crimson halo
betokening
the martyr’s fate,
framing his only-open face.
Here, he abandons
his lord.
Behind it all,
the artist, absorbed,
holds a lamp
to see—to show—
obscure—seizure.
Flesh & metal—
the surfaces
he most illuminates
with brutal moonlight;
the taking of Christ.
·
Turn on the TV.
Turn off the TV.
Try to take
a walk before
the mayor takes
your walks from you.
Turn on the TV.
Turn off the TV.
Try to listen
to only the people
marching:
Their breath.
Their breath.
Their Breath.
·
Whether rich
with weathering
or shackled
with flight
soft pad
before dark
along goes
an observer.
It is on, this
along of them,
for retroactive
or foresight,
shaded and
graded, gray
boons skyward.
Belief intangible,
consequential,
a quotation,
and engraved.
BIO
RE DRUM cadre is a Seattle-based poetry collective with a partially rotating cast of contributors that makes work for both print & performance. For the “cadre” project, core members Alex Bleecker, Willie James, and Jeremy Springsteed were joined by Greg Bem and Justine Chan.