Bowl of Light - The Argotist Online

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the ignorance of lost causes Colonial time is nothing like the present wrapped in fever-warm water and sunken: a child's dirty, secret, treasure burnished by salt and diminished, hues we cannot discern always blurred around the edges viewed through air, that imperfect medium for song dreaming of pirate ships and immaculate beards, women in fifteen layers of gauze that dance belowdecks, emerging at night with a knife between their teeth, blood on their delicately hemmed toes the brine of the air, then nothing, the hue and cry of slaves below hemmed in by coins worth their flesh and love witness whose crime what took them away what brings them back tossing a penny into a mall fountain meaningless compulsion, frigid air the chatter of teenage girls the somber shuffling of resigned men the brash glare of hormonal frippery in androgynous display reflected in this extra dimension between me and the world I would love a funhouse mirror the edge of everything Colonial time is nothing like the present: it's underneath water soil our consciences.
otherwise I. Anything placed here has its own agenda, regardless of nightflower scents - here, lilac; there, jasmine - when you see the child what do you say to that dark spot, packaged revelations like pop music and always hungry I once knew something, that agenda placed here has its own anything, regardless of temperature or volume; I hear my brother scrabbling around in my desk "not real," you say: no, not real but cold nails and bread feed the word II. cascades surround, and other-wise calliope plays, that half-hearted amplifier almost with magic almost with fingers I cannot stare for long; hinged eagles jut for eyes and earth here, beneath the weight of this sky when you're at my back still cracked conjuration this day III. To know the circle is not a pathway to the ocean but a train of flowers cast upon waves that beat objections elsewhere what depth, failure IV.
Page 2 and 3: Bowl of Light C. Brannon Watts Argo
Page 4 and 5: Bowl of Light
Page 6 and 7: owl of light I. The feckless rule t
Page 8 and 9: V. cold arms and questing mouths of
Page 12 and 13: poet of my youth, fragile hate and
Page 14 and 15: portrait of my unease. I can do not
Page 16 and 17: intelligibility comes and goes I wo
Page 18 and 19: dandelion What is it, exactly what
Page 20 and 21: Ninety Degrees “Spaceship Earth i
Page 22 and 23: here, and them Your deadspace collo
Page 24 and 25: ut oh, delicious child. gloryman Ta
Page 26 and 27: punching clouds Fucking process cur
Page 28 and 29: on arrogance Of course you're beaut
Page 30 and 31: interstitial We've made disastrous
Page 32 and 33: miraculousviolentwintermoment Here
Page 34 and 35: with you, I can smell where you hav
Page 36 and 37: you and weight.
Page 38 and 39: the pornographia of substandard min
Page 40 and 41: in a forest drizzle-whispers cross
Page 42 and 43: everywhere below the belt Nickels f
Page 44 and 45: there is nothing I can do to steal
Page 46 and 47: Hubble repairs notwithstanding When
Page 48 and 49: inertia I await miracles same as an
Page 50 and 51: when When women get together they t
Page 52 and 53: lasted all over the road with billb
Page 54 and 55: dance hall explodes, killing one fo
Page 56 and 57: how punk All these men nab carrots
Page 58 and 59: your family and all you hold in you
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faery Mound glittering electric som
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splice the mainbrace Splice the mai
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sound 1. "Organized religion has do
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glorious on a cellular level Her fa
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cloisonné What on earth does that
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C. Brannon Watts is a poet and educ
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