Three Poems

Daniel Owen



Untitled (2015) by Pareesa Pourian, charcoal on paper, 52″x51″


If with a Twix and leash on
life as surface rote they open
or jaunt to town for a dose the burning
lake the lake burned the
neat honest swaying
gently as if fanned by incongruous anti-
mass if wish felled itself and other
remote engagements of
hard on novacaine peppermint twist the burning
lake hosed SIX AM by elegant
promise work a hot
cereal morning no sky to the
cavity they enjoy pre-exploring fancied
contacts cities mountains an hour
and a half in arms the meaning full
one frotted beautiful memory deserts if
one on one’s way to work finds the price is
there the crescendo or capable as if nothing
had ever happened ever as its syrup
lulls to the mouth time to have at
mismiming the story the lake burned the
lake burnt in a language they couldn’t but it
won’t actually hurt the dead horse right or
mobility and intention to ask the piper for
a soft one as in fuck throes commuter rail
over frozen river not all in scheme yard
of rusted dumpsters sing of what I sea to
identify in the danger-high-voltage
untouchedness on






Enterprise. You want what you
want—in the morning, on the parkway,
propulsion. All cyclic dreams,
email drafts, tattoos never tattooed.
Work wolf with the jubilee. If all one needs is
Teeth alone! To go. Multilaterally unidirectional,
how’s that for a house of viscous gold. Wolf
to be given. Getting one small inessential direction, getting
it right. Look possibility in its discourse. Terrifying
and beautiful oblivity let me go. Wolf in the tunnels
beneath the ground, in the boneyard, the
morning sun. Sociality fibers strained time sheet
moraine. Fucking wolf. Editors of obscurity,
piecemeal lollipops. You know what the reason is?
To and fro, to and fro, a woken cessation where
nothing visibly bleeds. I once drank blood, in a backyard
surrounded by friends.






Alp and lil’ eros of 20 years, charmed ego, elk court plums in
alp escape zones of chill ends, 25 years, univocal tourist, a day is an hour.
Elk court plums as blank ocular moles, as venting nascent day is an hour
of hate money in cane and the last images of ambush seem to recruit
poor united seconds. The letter of cancellation, a coffee
with milk, an injection, a span of talons trepan what hulls
a mirror, the near ice day, unnamed, abjures, bronchitis delves into rain.
Last manic ossuary reels day’s core under court in a
late communion. Dawn’s passion, a trace of mirrored roast’s
desultory aggressor (pods of iguana mints discurse sullen laser yells).
Old dastard palace brags, a quelled braid of snow ascertaining a moved verse of southern
ventricles, a species of premature poor divestment at home,
mass oven cakes teen delay, and the peals of Canada enter
lost arcades of Plaza Martorell in Barcelona. Dawn passes, a trance
commotion of juice ghosts’ noon cow beers, a finalized map of haste.
15 years, the desert of lonely manifestos sins a semi-sunrise
and traces a pyramid, a buffalo, a sordid day star,
the brazen necrotic jovial, perennial succor plumbs
pork in the mental dell of chilling ocean slaves.


Daniel Owen is a writer and member of the Ugly Duckling Presse editorial collective. He is the author of Toot Sweet (United Artists Books) and the chapbook Authentic Other Landscape (Diez). His writing has appeared in Hyperallergic, Elderly, Lana Turner, A Perimeter, The Brooklyn Rail, and elsewhere.