Field Notes From Andromeda or why i don’t give a Fuck about writing poetry

CHRIS FISCELLA

I’d like to think you’d:

call me Quasar and burst at the seams of your name                                             when from my breath I let slip all the tales star-riders absorb;                                 come, walk the sun with me, dissolve,                                                                   and I’d sweep you like gravity like soft summer kisses like saccharine hyacinths;                                               I’d plunge you in to that molten globe with me – aureoles and all – leaving only vapors and                               the question ‘to whom will the martians have left to sing?’

Or,

or maybe We could plop Our asses down by some brook-bed               and We don’t have to talk about books or me at all, i’ll stop with the semicolons (i promise) and We’ll                                                             talk about the kardashians and be all the more happy chasing flies       from Our goat cheese                                                                               i’ll show You a magic trick in between bites and in between oaks:           here, give me a penny and i’ll split heads from tails                                                                                               i’ll hand You two sides of the same coin                                                                                                               and while We’re down by that brook-bed, You can give me Your two cents for a change