Four Poems by Zachary Scott Hamilton


 

All | Rooms

All rooms weave a lodging memory from a chandelier, leaking little flowers from the mini-fridge, the personal fan, Anne’s lace, that doggy through the clouds, her stippled brush strokes of aura follow her shapes through the dining room flowers–

Each Disease comes with its own vacuum free of charge, lived in, dirty with words. We hoped (from our posture in the white throne) these might linger, ones that won’t, replaced by the morning curtains, the soft white of her shape, caressed through the window, a painting behind dodge dreams, touched up with the rising hills, heifers and bulls–

 

From Sand Library

Brandy and I are stealing whispers from an England trash can. The nylon
remarks I shop for there, whispering digitally, the moss tongue emerging
in the sidewalk—we sat in the mobile home together, blinds casting
whiskers made of shadows over Brandy’s cheeks as the kitten watched
laser light shows from fire trucks, a burning mobile home across the street
curling into the spruce trees before us. A chance equation that I’ve
stumbled upon, reaching through a woven ladder, into the static of a star.
Through elongated web into a hockey stick guitar, on roller skates. Piano
player goalie. The clock is a fur wasteland. An orange peel away from
future, nailing back the painted panel of the ghost ships—A shattered
mirror reflects the neighborhood boys in hockey masks, playing drums,
and hockey, guitar, piano, but scoring a goal. Weaving piano strings in
street light, ten A.M. Tournament of sound and steaming—passing then
taking forest roads—The rain takes us to a pond set into the neighbor’s roof
with inches of window so that we can display our bodies once fully
developed in mermaid postures—

The scissors, the hair clips, the combs—

Knots in a submarine sculpture because of red microwaves, the blow
dryer, a plate of string and bundles of the nerve in my chamomile teeth,
(sun kissing moon)

 

Five Windows Point East

When the astronauts get to the waterfall duck feathers float underneath, then wrapped by blue jays into a water fall tea, the feathers are taken to a soft turkey window. The astronauts wink at forever.

The house grows from the ground and a maze emerges, traced through a boat to sink to black silk, to float to brazil as sweet plum and dry fig ~ gold glove at the bed. A cloud in a kimono when she was drawing a red dress ~

when she sees sun in a cup, and holds roses for the milk man, waiting at the gate; he comes patiently, as an elder writes in bloom. Some echo forever, in a river, like fingers, from clouds.

 

Radio molar signal no.1.3

Cliff upset with needles walking running finger prints—
those thin lights, driven hallowed, blackberry cloud mother floating
around in the sky.
A segmented time piece of rooms hanging to vultures on string, to the
sun, silently to our father, for umbrellas. Often times raining hand
tools, hammers, saw blades, screw guns into landings, hung nicely now
in the shed, overgrown.

 
Zachary Scott Hamilton has been published in the newer york, queen mobs teahouse, sleeping fish, blaze VOX, spinning jenny, and fur-lined ghettos. He is the editor at MANNEQUIN HAUS

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