divine magnet





Guy Pettit


114 part emotion

there’s some shooting

i look at rosemary and she blinks

repeats herself, forgets if she was married in a ceremony

or at town hall

then ask a girl i don't know if she has gray hair

and she says yes

yes i have gray hair

what’s it to you

but it’s not as though her hair is here

the sweater comes off in the sun

and somebody’s feet go up

before they die

before venison is offered by an addict

little shallots

line our eyes

a lie at home

a lack of questions from a friend

it’s all these little steps in the mud

the missing paddle rosemary held

and the floppy hat of a lord

all coming together in a bright light

as the lovers fly their drone, tilted and spotty

foreign to the addict

and a joke to us

buzzed in the canyon

older in the coop

crippled by the mailbox

naive at the pump

pumped at the water fountain

shitty as a box of lettuce

in the moonlight


pay attention to the moonlight

there’s a little bit of you left that cares

some piece to give away

or go away

either way


J.Wes Stomach Lover

J.Wes built the bathhouse with his dad then had sex with a stranger

He gave you his body then read Moby Dick to you

He cooled the house and leapt to the eaves

Like he does every day

J.Wes became a christian mystic and studied the kabbalah and wrote a poem

He had the softest lips and was contacted not once but every night

Since he was a boy

J.Wes tattooed himself into himself into a river god

J.Wes picked an apple

J.Wes pickled a cucumber

J.Wes had an empty mind

But he emptied it

J.Wes was buried in a field of Anemone and clover and the next day reborn as a chipmunk

But he didn’t like that

And killed himself and was reborn again but this time as a salmon

Which he preferred

J.Wes sired 10000 children salmon before he married you and built you an arts and crafts style cottage

But in the country in the desert under the mountain

Welcoming his visitors with sea salt and desirable soaps

Until his last day

Which he spent with you and your dad

Riding a BMW motorcycle in a desolate world

Without eyes to watch a thing

Or any expectations at all


poem in place of knowing

i know very little about my body

it’s not big, wouldn't be considered masculine

but i don't know what masculine is most of the time

or why i would want to consider it in relationship to my body

or any other part of me

except that it might give me a distant confidence

and why is that

like these line breaks give me a close confidence

little drops of steam

little interruptions of thought that make me feel rhythmic

i think about myself a lot lately

always wondering where i fit

what routines might give me strength

to love confidently again

like i used to

though that’s only what i tell myself

i could say i love you still

but i’m not in a fantasy

i’m in a poem

and i like that

i love you still

and the pieces of you that aren't gone

must lie across my heart

and burst uncontrollably

sweat and heat the weird realm that i love

fizzle and cool out

on a wooden picnic table on the boardwalk of god

its light on a middle finger i’ll never forget

some thing unspeakably lost

the head of a cat disembodied from this plane

a pineapple burning the throat of love

before it sits down under a young tree

on a stone