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Academy of American Poets Summer Series. Recorded at the New York Public Library, August 5, 2014.

About this poet

Justin Marks is the author of You're Going to Miss Me When You're Bored (Barrelhouse Books, 2014) and A Million in Prizes (New Issues Poetry & Prose, 2009), which was chosen by Carl Phillips as the winner of the 2009 New Issues Poetry Prize. He is co-founder of Birds, LLC and lives in Queens, New York. 

On Happier Lawns, V

Love endures like war
A connection I make then let
be unmade    Some guy
nodding out in a Starbucks,
severe career advice
from strangers    It’s 1pm and reality
is palpable    A gun
I leave my DNA wherever I can
and have no opinions to speak of
except when showering
When I was 8 my mother threw
a drink in my face    A taste
of blood    The clouds were a show
all on their own

From You're Gonna Miss Me When You're Bored (Barrelhouse Books, 2014) by Justin Marks. Copyright © 2014 by Justin Marks. Used with permission of the author.

From You're Gonna Miss Me When You're Bored (Barrelhouse Books, 2014) by Justin Marks. Copyright © 2014 by Justin Marks. Used with permission of the author.

Justin Marks

Justin Marks

Justin Marks is the author of You're Going to Miss Me When You're Bored (Barrelhouse Books, 2014) and A Million in Prizes (New Issues Poetry & Prose, 2009), which was chosen by Carl Phillips as the winner of the 2009 New Issues Poetry Prize. He is co-founder of Birds, LLC and lives in Queens, New York. 

by this poet

poem

My natural instincts are hardly ever right. When I sleep there is a voice in my ear coming through a cheerleader's megaphone in a really bizarre language. I understand fully. The world is out the window. When we wake on the weekends and my wife wants sex, I say, the furniture is feline, let's just snuggle. Then I

poem

Everybody is already
someone else
An existential tag line

Money is current

I would like to not live
paycheck to paycheck

You could make a pun on currency
but not quite

Money is an energy nonetheless

Dark space        Dark water

A

poem

The city is a kind welcome

of fire    It's on fire

I tell you         not making sense

in the usual sense of the word sense

but a meteor’s bloom

The bad guys rehearsing

their latest number—

high kicks and all—the good guys watching

videos of unrest in real

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