Stephen Kirbach



Oftimes waiting is in order, and all this against a consistent background of biotic crisis for which the poem bears absolute responsibility. Thus, a vast complexity of the world around one might be shaken so that debris swirls. Pieces then drift in an air seeming fluid and from which I snatch and place into a poem such unfettered shreds. I pass through this mash, physically, and sometimes words attach or rather intersect my physicality with this swirl of what ever might be happening, and I take notes accordingly, that is, not unlike dictation. Sometimes phrases adhere to one another from either vast distances or disturbances, and a poem might be thereby built. Time is quite plastic and arbitrary in this dynamo of stuff. One brief note from years previous or even dissociate flesh memories might attract other words in tone and paronomastic. Reading enters into this mix, naturally or not, as always sound, meaning, though not necessarily, logic. Otherwise, I don't nearly understand the workings; I just happen to middle here. And anyway, (sometimes) things laterally "fall into place." My goal is an entire revision of the prevailing socio- political structure, the humanist experiment gone seriously awry.




one one one

one won one


one wonders
mister one

one mister one

hat mister

mister one
one stone mister

mister stone hat

stone equals stone

one country littered
with stone

mister come on up
out onto the ground

make nothing of it

heave that hat one stone hey
mister hauls it away

mister goodstone
stupid house








sun gone under a distant edge day
by day the citizens gather

one day one
gather citizen
citizens      I gather


                                   in the beginning what wasn't
                                           one either was
                                                      or wasn't
                                   was but
one from another
one    one from one
         on then, and
         on stepping then, an optic no


                                   an opposition
                                                         of will against won't
                                                      savage distribution
                                                      infected perhaps with

nobody we want around I arrives
                    a camera

                                                                        savage the mother
                                                                                            the son

an examination into the murder of one reveals some

                                                              one who vanished








One might muse thereby odd as

odd today, one mumbles, other
than X, Rich and I were the
last to see her alive.
what can anyone expect? We
recall another century, a century
detrimental and finally remote,
even to those who prospered, and much
to the dismay of their victims.
minutes askew, all petty increments
oblivious, perhaps whoever we was
haunts some nerve undiminished, one
eye which ambles, the other arctic
with what it has witnessed.
man awakens surrounded by junk in
                    Ridges hump up the highway
which mounts beyond clouds; up
thrust granite drips in the wind.

Time works dispute then the age.    Billy
with his ketchup green, Molotov
purple, gasoline. Today
the decline of the sun matters at
the cracks of an old house within
a network of whistle and hiss.

Bestrew those chosen figures of wrath
whenever one's dog steps into the road.

Overheard snatches of kill theory
result in one who imagines him
self pitching fish, body parts,
the shoulder for instance.

The polemical nature of religious
fervor yesterday, likewise today,
translates as specifically wanting,
protein machinery denial, this
one made of glass, a brittle
fanatic, billboard cadence erotic
production in image boast fix,
for one has no brain, no befit
relish for that which is fleet.

Who yells over the water some
thing about come with a cage?
killer, a well-respected man, feels
with his foot for the soap and
considers his garden gone to
waste in a world in which each
moment bids, certainly, haste.                           (after Lisa Jarnot)








Into the hillside, shove

another house.    Whom
today might one categorize as
the villain?    Oh
my gosh, it's

amazing that you
have neighbors
that you don't
know and to think

they would do
that, or how
to explain
oneself, how

one explains him
self, whomever, or
the excuse
of an assassin

seated at the job
services dept.
with a bunch of
others, the wait, water

heard rippling in
the can, stretch
and yawn, these

of unemployment, a
guy's gotta keep his
cap on, hey,
they all

do it, have
you got that letter that
says one week or
less, no, paper,

rustle and, one gut
methane retainer, and
why not, bear
the cap back

ward, given
flush rustle
poor sucker
and flush-









brought me to the edge
          of this chasm - the stink
          which rises - modeled
on the concept
          that I - with all these others -
          will be annihilated
at any moment -
          horizon an unattached retina -
          a circle of glint
overhead - whereat
          one sees - reflected in cobalt -
          gamblers - who sit with fists
full of cards - upside
          down around a round
          table - wet rings
          under their beer glasses -
          and they move in
slow motion - one rusted
          a floor mat - while others shoot
pool - swagger and thrust -
          dust covers
everything - and
          the clacking
          of the balls threatens
slant showers -



Stephen Kirbach lives in Asheville NC. Some of his poems can be found online at Exquisite Corpse, Moira, Muse Apprentice Guild, Pom2, Shampoo, Sidereality, and Can We Have Our Ball Back?.

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