by: Paul Maziar
As perception plays tag with rumination and we find ourselves uncomfortably poised somewhere in the middle of that feedback loop, Paul Maziar’s poetry reminds us of how gloriously and unbelievably weird everything is.
A pleasure moving like a fire in a fire place. I talk of going but don’t
even have a suit case. Ya llegamos. “I remember” gave on a courtyard and
later country flags all down expressway lawns. I have seen these
happiness. It would seem I know them and enjoy knowing them, like
rungs. But I can’t prove it.
As startling as a no man saying yes, every misstep makes for a leap. Then
a little flight. Something or other forgotten, night fell atop another
during one of Jackie’s monologues. Beside the glowing in the next
house, you could see why they say that fog rolls. Evenings. Florence
sniffs. In her is sleep. Each has a different remedy, washing down
praline ices and the delicious cakes of the quarter. Outside the legend,
the Romantic scheme is true.
In the city where I’m from, there are many cars and there are many
trucks. Sometimes the beautiful women look through their binoculars
to see the fat men dress. These men are beautiful because they are
Italian. The insomniac rises from his sleep. Like a commercial he sips
the coffee with his nose. We turn off the street to find the symphony. A
pretty steep place always tucked behind a whirlwind or taxi. We cross
our sea legs and room together.
“My sea is on a meridian” you say, and sure it is but which?
You’ve been silent a million years, and while we sit amid
the barkings of the parchment, our benefit from maps is lost
to guessing. We’ll survive some landless latitude in your
company, so please, throw a side-light on your saying “my
sea is on a meridian,” and tell us what you mean.
Paul Maziar is a writer living in Portland. A chapbook of his poems, Little Advantages, was published by Couch Press in 2013, and poems from his forthcoming Pneumatics can be read at Brooklyn Rail. Paul is co-editor of a journal called Banqueted alongside Chris Ashby, and he is co-editing an anthology of baseball poems with poet Jesse Morse. Paul’s art writings can be found at Artcritical.com.