By
Schoodic Pains
I’m the first word, the one nobody hears. A ghost! Mouldy
corners, varied ache. An antidote to legs. Other kinds of legs. What if? In the
plural. Effectively hidden from view. From now on, never, maybe. I’m that one
there, a frayed wire. Not so live. Thank goddess! Lost the knack. Feelings,
other complications. A leer, demi-frisson. Not so mellifluous. What’s that?
Four syllables, five dead batteries. Trying, really trying. An ear, stretched
right out. Yawning. Who says so? Rodents. One of these days. A glottal stop.
Any stop. You know? Fully unloaded. As an actual question. Through the wall. Or
on it, paper thin. In little lumps. Plasticine, child of distraction. Sticky.
With french braids, venom. For now, anyway. And its protectorates. Table,
tables. Slowly turning. Soft trifecta. Depending on depending. Plus one, plus
four. A good bout of it. Dental floss, every ailment in the book. Didn’t read
that one. Tumorous spine. Goodness, badness. Meaning? Not sure. Slightly ajar,
still alive. Only in late morning. Hot ones all around! Me, I’m a pine tree, an
old sapling. The word hardship, the thing itself. No apparatus, no switch. As
far as the eye can see. Broken twigs. Chlorine, full rotation. Nostalgia for
smell. Steroid cream too. A worrisome ping. Every ping. More ghosts,
snickering. Dry catfood. Somatically speaking, of course. Multitudes. Just a
few. Uncountable, oatmeal. Sentient? Or not. Crooked eye, mustard ketchup. I
don’t follow. In between. One tooth, long gone. Ipso facto, pancakes. Don’t
mind me. Just a wispy strand, an old cookie tin. Full of rags, wet matches.
Tomorrow it is, then. Affirmation, flatness. Turning a turn. For the worse. A
medley, covered in flies. Seventeen! At last. All-day breakfast. A johari
window. Or door? Trying to be kind. Dead grass. A kind of hole. Yellow,
sequential. Sloppy cloves. This one, just one string. Empty purple, an island.
With a twang. The secret is in. And out. Successful, tail a-wagging. Thirsty,
swelling with grace. Garbage can’t. Six pebbles, momentum. Or something like
it. Inflatable nouns. Relative to, or from. A rise inside. Mushy. Not now!
Small mammals, dry lips. Better than worse. That’ll do. Pine needles. Rings. Always
an outsider. Concentric, more or less. Reprieve. Even more ghosts.
Simon Brown (1979) [photo credit:
Maude Pilon] is a self-taught poet, translator and artist from the traditional
territory of the Peskotomuhkati Nation (southwestern New Brunswick) currently
based in Québec’s Montérégie-Est region (Ndakinna). His French and English
texts have been presented in interdisciplinary artworks and collaborative
performances, and via platforms such as Lemon Hound, Train, Estuaire, Vallum,
Poetry Is Dead, Watts, and filling Station. As a translator, he has adapted
texts by Erin Robinsong, Maude Pilon, Angela Carr, Danielle LaFrance and Jacob
Wren, among others. His collections and artist’s books have been published in
Québec, Canada and France by Vanloo, Moult, Le
laps, squint press, and Paper Pusher. This
Mud, A Word, is forthcoming later this year in Frog Hollow Press’s New
Brunswick chapbook series. Simon is also currently translating a series
of above/ground press chapbooks (Ottawa) to be published by Éditions Vanloo
(Marseille) in 2019, beginning with Alice Burdick and Gary Barwin’s Pleasure Bristles.
twitter.com/simonbeige
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