The Unquarantined Monologue

Now I jump between the horns of the bull,
When before,                that
I was alphabet arranged in space,
Couched in the language of
                                        and transferences.
But now I jump between the horns of the bull.

Now I boom and glister qua the tuned drum.
Now I quit the illstarred youknowwhoyouares.
Now I quaff bourbonblood in the lifevein.
Now I am qubits in the peaceable network.
Now my hands are quetzalwings to flashandflash with.
Now I sever the balloonstring of the quandary.
Now the quackisms are poems.
Now the questioners shed their marks.
Now I thrum quixotically, spreadingoutandoutandout.
Now the quintillionth is enough.
Now the quintessential is nonessential
                                        and I rest.
Now the quintuplicating forces could never match
                                        the magnitude,
                                        the magnitude,
                                        the magnitude
                                        of my
                                        voltaic stillness.

The Emerald Earring Monologue

Bud of fortune.         Alternating petals.      It opens.       It opens.        What forecast is mine→      to cast
             fore and mine to be.       each state.       each politick of pluck         from grip.       mine emasculated
             fore the forceps of nowness→ !!!!!!! !!!!!!! !!!!!!! !!!!!!! !!!!!!! !!!!!!!! !!!!!!! !!!!!!! !!!!!!! !!!!!!! !!!!!!! !!!!!!! !!!!!!! !!!!!!! !!!!!!!
             !!!!!!! !!!!!!! !!!!!!! !!!!!!! !!!!!!! !!!!!!! !!!!!!! !!!!!!! !!!!!!! !!!!!!! !!!!!!! !!!!!!! !!!!!!! !!!!!!! !!!!!!! !!!!!!!→ No more to the fore !!!!!!!
             !!!!!!! !!!!!!! !!!!!!! !!!!!!! !!!!!!! !!!!!!! !!!!!!! !!!!!!! !!!!!!! !!!!!!!→       No casting for the lure I am.   The trite things
             are true   !!!!!!! !!!!!!! !!!!!!! !!!!!!! !!!!!!! !!!!!!!→      So I conjure beauties.    imps of symmetry.    with glintful
             smiles sharp. Still,                                      It opens. And yet,                                 It opens.
             So let be.                             (The imps unbloomed in body.)

             And I casted claim the right presented me.         The alternation as nation         of stillness.
             The swearing   The screaming   The tears   The snot

                                   As bless and lilt.

                                                                                        →I whisper the emerald earring

                                                                                                   I faith the future in rapt presence.
                                                                                        the nonexistent-real as child and the left-to-right
                                                                                                                            of life and name
                                                                                        as tearful stupid superstructure.
                                                                                                                                     But eventually,
                                                                                                   events.                  What will I do with
                                                                                        the future’s tense
                                                                                        I will fall the heart down footpaths of instance.
                                                                                        I will kiss the tawny plots.
                                                                                        I will look the black long.      the brown deep.

                                                                                        Delimited now.                 Delimited now.

                                                                                        I will prove a god to pray you here.
                                                                                        I will pack a tongue to promise you.

Coleman Edward Dues is a poet and MFA candidate at The New School, where he serves as an editorial assistant for LIT Magazine. He is also the Donald Everett Axinn Fellow at the Academy of American Poets, where he helps to facilitate the Poem-a-Day series. His published work can be found in SurVision Magazine.