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While Writing

Noelle Kocot
Someone inside says, "Get busy."
But I've got appointments to keep,
I have an abstemious love of equations calculated quickly
While the tepid day melts into design.

And the high cheekbones of the beautiful life
Bear the loose look of a calendar by lamplight.
I search for patterns in everything.
I am tied in knots of comprehension.

I think, how useful it might be
To pierce all the hands of the earth
With an oath of pins encircling snarling planets
But talent and shallowness sewn together

Is nothing but a kerchief tied around a survivalist's head,
And it helps to know the feet wriggling through a hole
In the universe will land for an instant
Upon the cushions of the dark,

And that after marching one doozy of a kilometer after another, 
We each come upon the same poem scribbled in invisible ink 
Taped to the door of a room
In which an austere justice is burning for us.

From 4 by Noelle Kocot, published by Four Way Books. Copyright © 2001 by Noelle Kocot. Reprinted by permission of Four Way Books. All rights reserved.

From 4 by Noelle Kocot, published by Four Way Books. Copyright © 2001 by Noelle Kocot. Reprinted by permission of Four Way Books. All rights reserved.

Noelle Kocot

by this poet

poem
My body is 
A little 
Green sea.

Bears bathe
In it
Then go to

Sleep in the 
Basement.
A four-wheeler

Slams past,
And then the 
Sea splashes

Around and 
Around.  
O little sea,

O my body,
Sit here with me
While I just talk.
poem

Saturn seems habitual,
The way it rages in the sky
When we're not looking.
On this note, the trees still sing
To me, and I long for this
Mottled world. Patterns
Of the lamplight on this leather,
The sun, listening.
My brother, my sister,
I was born to tell you certain

poem

The alpha You. The omega You.
My grandmother’s ghost, its girlish snafu
Basking in the waters of urgency.

But I want the coolness of snow.
I want pairs of hands that speak to me cleanly,
Sutras to resuscitate what reigns

Over warped celluloid and heirlooms I can’t touch.
There