Kent MacCarter

A Lime Rickey by Jamaica Bay (before Chris Mann in SF CA)

 

Winterlong, it’s hard to tell by button holes and the pitchblende
Canadian cover songs adhere to when they slip inside a house, tap a tar and
     bind. Whack sharply on groove to crack when sounding out again, then
          march in one gum eraser each for stacks of easy paper. Wax or

doll up the letters Q and K so they may luge the epiphytes
of understory clauses, chutes emergent in a layer down
     our alphabet extends. Now, who’s got hose and is of sexless
          a design for coupling? Why this fallout accumulating Ichabod’s pears

our exoskeletal misspelling, and would it not you know that
all is orb and digital what combs predict from injection stamping
     and goad the millimicrons of our verbiage. Haircut parts
          two poems, they synchronise and bash apart a mushroom clone

this one just Portuguese with towering ampersands of sound
or tight enormous swans draping sparkle on the troposphere
     when spoke. Exurbs of flake accumulate in dad rock, eagles
          wedge-tailed with or without vowels, we could not afford

prudence far up here, nor any self-serving kumquat, an icy typo
in spats of char. Nuke that watusi-for-brains babysitter, he’s leisurely
     with scurvy and so’s that grammar, a heart attack in pantyhose
          is just, pixiedust our weathervane pretends is slang

 

 

 

 

Kent MacCarter is a writer and editor who lives in Castlemaine, with his wife and son. He’s the author of three poetry collections – In the Hungry Middle of Here (Transit Lounge, 2009), Sputnik’s Cousin (Transit Lounge, 2014) and California Sweet (Five Islands Press, 2018) – as well as two chapbooks, Ribosome Spreadsheet (Picaro Press, 2011) and Polyvinyl chloride (Under the Mountain Press, 2017).

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