Joanna Fuhrman, p.1
STABLE-SELF BLUES
I’m just another pizza delivery girl
Without a pizza, a raconteur with nothing
To recount. I heavy-breathe by the rabbit
Iconography, refusing to multiply. Mina Loy
Is my favorite video game.
I love blowing up those enemy nouns.
Do you think we could escape into a city without nouns?
Be the thought-repressor-gesture demanded of each girl
Who sticks her tongue into the game
Of another’s ribs. With lights off, nothing
Could stun us more than a Mina Loy
Christmas tree, decorated with pink rabbits
Feet key chains. Oh no. Rabbits!
They’re like a new breed of nouns
Multiplying like a couple of Mina Loys
Into a pointillist ex-girl
Paradise of verbs. Nothing
Could really be better than this game
In which nothing feels like it is a game,
And dead friendships like sick rabbits
Swirl a sonata into the single nothing
In the disarray of things. Damn nouns,
Please stop muting my explosions. You’re too girly
Dressed to kill like Mina Loy,
Pretending you’re just a minor Mina Loy.
Don’t think I’m putting down all games.
I love the exquisite popcorn fiasco of those girls
Dancing until they turn into a thousand rabbits
Chewing on a slew of predigested nouns,
Swallowing the last of all those so-called “things.”
I wish I could be happy to be just a thing,
To decorate the foyer like a post-poem Mina Loy,
To be content with all the useless nouns
Before they fracture into neon games.
Imagine what peace those rabbits
Could inspire if they stopped chewing the ribbons of the girls.
Who said nouns? I’ve enjoyed the migrating waves of game.
There’s nothing really left to my memory of Mina Loy.
The stuffed rabbits on the pillow sleep like the sweetest smallest girl.
“It is odd to have a separate mouth.”
—Bill Berkson
I’m just another pizza delivery girl
Without a pizza, a raconteur with nothing
To recount. I heavy-breathe by the rabbit
Iconography, refusing to multiply. Mina Loy
Is my favorite video game.
I love blowing up those enemy nouns.
Do you think we could escape into a city without nouns?
Be the thought-repressor-gesture demanded of each girl
Who sticks her tongue into the game
Of another’s ribs. With lights off, nothing
Could stun us more than a Mina Loy
Christmas tree, decorated with pink rabbits
Feet key chains. Oh no. Rabbits!
They’re like a new breed of nouns
Multiplying like a couple of Mina Loys
Into a pointillist ex-girl
Paradise of verbs. Nothing
Could really be better than this game
In which nothing feels like it is a game,
And dead friendships like sick rabbits
Swirl a sonata into the single nothing
In the disarray of things. Damn nouns,
Please stop muting my explosions. You’re too girly
Dressed to kill like Mina Loy,
Pretending you’re just a minor Mina Loy.
Don’t think I’m putting down all games.
I love the exquisite popcorn fiasco of those girls
Dancing until they turn into a thousand rabbits
Chewing on a slew of predigested nouns,
Swallowing the last of all those so-called “things.”
I wish I could be happy to be just a thing,
To decorate the foyer like a post-poem Mina Loy,
To be content with all the useless nouns
Before they fracture into neon games.
Imagine what peace those rabbits
Could inspire if they stopped chewing the ribbons of the girls.
Who said nouns? I’ve enjoyed the migrating waves of game.
There’s nothing really left to my memory of Mina Loy.
The stuffed rabbits on the pillow sleep like the sweetest smallest girl.