Jennifer Scappettone is the author of From Dame Quickly (Litmus Press, 2009), and of several chapbooks: Ode oggettuale, a bilingual poemetto translated into Italian with Marco Giovenale (La Camera Verde, 2008); Err-Residence (Bronze Skull, 2007); and Beauty [Is the New Absurdity] (dusi/e kollectiv, 2008). She is at work on a manuscript called Exit 43, an archaeology of the landfill and opera of pop-ups, for Atelos. She was guest editor of Aufgabe 7, devoted to contemporary Italian poetry of research. She is an assistant professor at the University of Chicago.
Delection Even
I dredge allegedly
to repair and upgrade the Port of Umm Qasr
transrational contract drag
well I pledge alien
lesions will be doled
expensively (not on the cheap)
and not to um miss explosives
who shell
Bechtel by the—that is Shell it by the
shore Bechtel sells
unflaggingly to the drag of the dividend
rates of America I pluck allegiance from
an estimated 1.8 billion
and to the executive committee—
Chicago—the world's fair—and to Columbus
Day in the park—I think it was the fourth of the
reprivate which it hands
to the drooling class—I mean the measuring
cache watch this base—I am a semifree colonist in gall—
and to the elect by which it assesses,
and to the electric by which it stands, and erects, th—
rederegulated privates, bow, get down: how
much would be chucked if this versus
then forest of Arden
should burn in the name of the national hamlet—
if it be true that good wine needs no bush,
we'd choose once we got behind the curtain, we guessed,
if it's there anymore except
in Geist. . . . while one gush mail addles in accidental
against its—when walking Tokyo—wonderful
you caming to OOIOO show and I
Ill put you on the just list—
this against—flurry of
finger-pointing—forget it
and your phony numbers like in why two okeydoke
take it, one ration under planes—
Apaches, syllabled to us versus shame—
one galaxy under goods, world's-without-end fair
under the indivisible party, beneath security, below
God's belts to humanity, with
puberty and enduring as-is and no trial for troglodytes and dogs and
tax treats for by for
allegiance. The friction has its machine—as you choose it?
Concerning Lasts Made (In Illinois)
Darksome, this schizic
sand where frame
from guilt of
skyframe be-slowly-locks a
civic canton's gush
permuting off the
private staff
which
tunes Casanova's motorized
oohs metronoming the
bang that would
protract Enlightenment in
staffs
of servers
babbling mud colloquys
between us toddler-seizures
of experience-fulsome tweet
seconds of iron
archaic composed within
hymns to resist
wood-under-arsenic fire before
corpse-steel raises
heath and harebells'
fallout through hammering
hands—the kind
that cites itself
as already dust
straddling the saw
who croons fallacy
warping against itself
I am a
memory lapse. Drone,
how to make
a
last. Double
it.
[already][ double][sawn]