five poems

by Josh Lipson

Delulu

I daydream — I leer
I am no longer sure whether models for the modern
poem matter —
or if anyone skullbound can say anything more —

he who speaks does not know —

and yet the mind, ever searching for a
ground-glass alembic is lovesick, spinning soft
cheese with fenugreek seeds into serpentine
commodity, conjuring wine songs under shaggy
brows austere buzz cut —

breathing and existing I
maximize inpatient experience

pining for a homeland I find myself
not guilty by reason of insanity

worshipping soft skin
I commit myself
to the rocky slope, scavenged by hawks,

powdered with talc.

25 micrograms

Adam and Eve falling through the sky

creating cosmos out of

breathless Abzu

certain we’re about to die—

every stretch of our skin parched,

falling apart in the vacuum of space,

eating uchuva on the jungle floor

(where do our limbs end

and the blaze of the berries begin?)

Aka doing night work

to Naima by John Coltrane,

creating the species—

splayed in God’s waiting room

with mango and saxophone angels,

we take our cue from the

piano to lock lips—

to water each other—

to save me in the desert

Norn Ballad

Hildina—my love—is a rouge

Salamander stuccoed with stopwatches

Amethyst with pretzels

No wonder I cannot keep up

Even when my records are flush with the

Joneses’, my consciousness encompassing

Every steel plate of the Bombardier train, manufactured

In icy Quebec I am open to

Trying many new things I am open to

Being any person along with myself

And my loving amphibious vehicle sprouts

Horns of croissant and kouign amann

And my reptile companion belches hearts of ass

And the neighborhood pool is strung with the

Strings of Spain’s most frightening guitar

Hellions decamp on jet skis to its water

Amaan amaan amaan amaan

Calling In A Strike

I was in Izbet-Sartah, literate

I was with Zaphnath-Paaneah at

Starbucks Reserve in Manhattan, he ordered

herbal tea — he was my likeness

but “high agency”, I looked at my

forearms slow-roasting, inked

up and down with palindromes. I am

listening to Etti Ankri. I am Yehuda HaLevi.

I’m reading Ibn Gvirol to a girl on a boulder

in the middle of the falls.

I’m listening to R&B. I’m listening to Monica

Sex. I’ve been spotted at the border crossing.

Hanniba’al. Hanniba’al.

Meriamun

We’re playing a game called Beloved of Amun.

We all take turns as Beloved of Amun.

You can pay me to be Beloved of Amun for forty-five minutes.

Or I can buy you dinner for the chance to be Amun’s Most Beloved on the train ride home.

Monday after midnight I was designated Amun’s Beloved when I least expected.

Riding high— Beloved of Amun—fifty hours later.

At this very moment, someone is summoning Heaven on a dance floor,

Mouthing Lyttle adjurations,

Let me hold you, Most Beloved of Amun, you got me going crazy.

Photo of Josh Lipson

BIO: Josh Lipson is a poet, historian, and psychologist, based in Atlanta, by way of New York, San Francisco, Boston, and Istanbul. His work has been featured in venues including Burning House Press, Petrichor, KGB Bar Lit, and The SHARKPACK Annual. His poem “Habana-Om” was nominated in 2019 for Sundress Publications’ Best of the Net Anthology.