Issue 4: Mitch Corber

Yawning Songbirds

Veiled moon over Vaporous Valley

a myth of impeccable depth

Hasty cookies cornstarch

alarming inventories of sordid crave

Imagine the explosive hose

a yawning lawn of

early dawning songbirds

looking for a clearing

Indoors I shun a one-way weekend binge

for the twinge of meditation

Creaky cabinets of look-and-ye-shall

plainly chase an acquired taste

Catching cod in a leaky canoe

Tossing odd tributes to liquid Neptune

Easy lifeboat throat of

sporadic nibbling

Curvatures, reticular

in their particular pose

throw a rosy glow

on social mores

Geiger counter passes over

the patient’s prone body.

Cobalt sky

possesses culpability

I hustle a Monday summit

up a seasonable mountainside,

tipping my hand to the landfill

scorched by an ill-timed torch

Fiddler’s Song

An errant gesture snookered in that drinkable

prayer sheer myrrh the drowse and woozy eyes

of fried colic receding a fleeting tooth in tender

loincloth moth-eaten thistles pursed lips

bewitched a thin whistle twitting free

Each will work a turned ear tweaked by

unimpeachable promise the long sighs

shy in the pocket of locked and guarded goods

holding fast till the last laugh traffics back

a scratchy flutter in the clutter of commitment

You’re first to swerve off the railing roped

to an old hope a happy lapse a feathered

whether-or-not clot in the throat tendered

when the base blend of lyric & tune assumes

the Fiddler’s Song gnawing in the dawning

A Hundred Tongues

A hundred tongues lead me to steer

the impossible far-gone conclusions of a sleuth

chewing on a clue. In turning an inner ear

to the serious nature of plates,

I break one, to see what it’s made of.

A fluffy pink arousal is a cotton-candy dancer.

A mordant everlasting is a faster buck untendered.

Zones moan a stasis, rot-got-yer-tongue.

Tumultuous minutes of a popular clock

sold in most Ma & Pa hardware operations.

The feeble and the senile in a circle.

A terrible sucking attenuation.

I’ve watched my insomnia breed a block

of theaters, wished my restless fiber

to wrestle with the gods.

So I’ve softened expectations lately,

a scale hovering on a number.  Fumbling,

I’ve fastened “laughed at” to my magic strap.

A hinge of shyest flavors infiltrates

a zoo of higher learning.

Heavens erupt to the sumptuous past.

Museums are leaning to historicize.

Slinky tiger catlicks his claws

hogging all the best kill.

Teeth seem straighter when they smile.

Awardee of the New York Foundation for the Arts and producer of Poetry Thin Air Cable Show, Mitch Corber has read throughout NYC. He founded the Thin Air Video Poetry DVD Archives which include Ginsberg, Corso, Ashbery, Di Prima, and Cage. He's appeared in Columbia Poetry Review, Nedge, Mirage and tight.

Copyright © 2010 by Mitch Corber, all rights reserved. This text may be used and shared in accordance with the fair-use provisions of Copyright law. Archiving, redistribution, or republication of this text on other terms, in any medium, requires the notification of the journal and consent of the author.