Maxwell Rabb
Offbeat on a Horse, Current
a horse beat similar to what i know
of late belligerence–
in the later years,
i have become a sinking saint
of the neighborhood.
the moving verb: beasted. the pure
fast-paced heat & speed of San Francisco.
when i return to my local
laundromat in concerted movement:
i will listen closely to the couples at the dryers; to the second strophic–
the cycle of waterfronts, i will stand at the tide.
there is something big in here, Houston at early evening.
but truly, i can hear it
a voice of Gliese / or a full scale radio reprisal /
put to the test the fire from
Cornerstone St. / an off-chance happening /AUG 5 on a congested stairwell
the caesura
and i open a window to provide a little air for the eyes;
a burning sprint.
dear aching legs–
dear passerby, the slow-cold is anything but painless.
Please Join
i meet the old voices the closeness of mercury.
& coincidentally, i am called a fallen saint.
sitting at Cornerstone St. with a friend
reading a blown up catalog of filled with clean homes.
my cushion
remains mislaid, i remember.
hello, transpicuity
the next morning, i can see the yeller keeping me awake;
he will one day make the fourth movement beyond
the middle intermission. to reach down to tie my shoe again,
some new forms beyond notice,
i sit quietly
with tissue burns on AUG 6.
of late belligerence–
in the later years,
i have become a sinking saint
of the neighborhood.
the moving verb: beasted. the pure
fast-paced heat & speed of San Francisco.
when i return to my local
laundromat in concerted movement:
i will listen closely to the couples at the dryers; to the second strophic–
the cycle of waterfronts, i will stand at the tide.
there is something big in here, Houston at early evening.
but truly, i can hear it
a voice of Gliese / or a full scale radio reprisal /
put to the test the fire from
Cornerstone St. / an off-chance happening /AUG 5 on a congested stairwell
the caesura
and i open a window to provide a little air for the eyes;
a burning sprint.
dear aching legs–
dear passerby, the slow-cold is anything but painless.
Please Join
i meet the old voices the closeness of mercury.
& coincidentally, i am called a fallen saint.
sitting at Cornerstone St. with a friend
reading a blown up catalog of filled with clean homes.
my cushion
remains mislaid, i remember.
hello, transpicuity
the next morning, i can see the yeller keeping me awake;
he will one day make the fourth movement beyond
the middle intermission. to reach down to tie my shoe again,
some new forms beyond notice,
i sit quietly
with tissue burns on AUG 6.
Commentary
Maxwell on "Offbeat on a Horse, Current":
How to navigate a world of unprovable conjectures. The poetry I am interested in is often entangled by itself, weaved together by the anxiety of mundane instances. There is a simmering distrust or low frequency paranoia that hammers away throughout the poem. Inspired by poets like Hannah Weiner and Merle Hoyleman, I hope to translate these supernatural anxieties. I aim to create a space that strings together these moments in order to provide comfort among the uncertain, and hopefully, what materializes is a consolation within a dicey world.
How to navigate a world of unprovable conjectures. The poetry I am interested in is often entangled by itself, weaved together by the anxiety of mundane instances. There is a simmering distrust or low frequency paranoia that hammers away throughout the poem. Inspired by poets like Hannah Weiner and Merle Hoyleman, I hope to translate these supernatural anxieties. I aim to create a space that strings together these moments in order to provide comfort among the uncertain, and hopefully, what materializes is a consolation within a dicey world.
Biography
Maxwell Rabb (he/him/his) lives in Chicago, but leaves his heart in New Orleans and Atlanta. He is a poet, pursuing his M.F.A. at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago. His writing has appeared or is forthcoming in GASHER, Dream Pop Journal, Spectra, Deluge, After the Pause, and others. He loves to move in every sense of the word.
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