The Moths



Remembered Dream 43

Remembered Dream 51

Remembered Dream 56

Remembered Dream 59

Remembered Dream 77

Remembered Dream 78

Remembered Dream 84

Remembered Dream 85

Remembered Dream 89

Remembered Dream 111

Remembered Dream 112

Remembered Dream 150

Remembered Dream 166





The Moths


I’m rigorously religious

in my approaches

to breakfast—crack

the egg, toast

the Eggo.  Patient I

pour our dark

coffee into a dove

white mug.  We will


be old soon and gum

what’s scrambled

in the way our now

young minds inefficiently

consume their runny

consternations.  Let us


squeeze the ripening

orange for juice, wipe

sleep from our mouths, clear

the moths of morning, dear.





She jumps to the tickle of wings as we

pour our

                coffee, often

I’m of tenderer 

                                    skin, hers

peeled like a grape

from around her nails, by her


nails.  She is done ailing, a bell

peals in the throat of a close

bird, a monkey, a closed

in porch.  I sour our


coffee with milk, heed need only

so much

                as touch must

suffice, surface under

                                    the mosquito

net wet with ardor.

She is so little                here sometimes


so riddled with distant riddles

she says play faintly on

the leaves, ply bark

for song, even


as the clouds let loose their baffling

contents, she

                        hears sometimes

the wings of small things


                                    the mosquitoes

and yet she is still

content enough with coffee


or an arm around her

stomach, some other


warm, soundless offering.





I’m divided                  




Interests, which are like a knife              Simple


      To say we flay

                               Ourselves in an act

      Of uncertainty                              


Better to say—what the throat thinks

                                                           we drink, like fish


            Rising up to the light for flies, or even

            Like flies rising up to a light

          For curiosity’s sake

Knock, turn, the night opens

Its breezy eyelid & we

    All fall down


                        Invisibility has so

                        Many eyes



Remembered Dream 43


I was a FedEx delivery


boy in a starched blue


outfit.  I had been


assigned a monkey


assistant who knew


the basics of English


language.  Headquarters


were shared with an up


& coming local politician.


During the big Spring


fundraiser we set free a rare


green bird.  From the winding


boulevard, all the buildings


looked vast & ruinous.  The bird


flew to them.  My assistant


pointed a hairy, bent finger


towards the sky, angered.


“They’re not even good-fake!


They’re just fake.  This studio


is the worst!”  I just stood there


looking at the fake sky, smiling.



Remembered Dream 51


Singing karaoke with the former


President, I forgot my lines and my love


she could not remember them to me.


Out in the fields there are extras


from a movie about extra


terrestrials haunting the kids


or maybe hunting, no way


to know.  It all happened


at a rager on a farm outside


Hollywood.  I was there. 


No, really, I was.



Remembered Dream 56


It is the future & my friend


the artist, will only work


his constellations and colors


on the backs of closed doors.  Dogs


must mutate if they are


to survive themselves.  We believe


there is something looming at the bottom


of the lake, but our machines keep


breaking before we can find


out what it is.  The repairman thinks


it’s a sham, but says, “If you believe


there is something looming there is


something looming.”





We were forced to abandon


our home for defaming


a certain celebrity, forced


to shove off in an ailing


hovercraft all bedecked


in last year’s Christmas


hoopla.  My Great


Grandfather was packed


in ice among the rations.


Out at sea, I bumped


into an old girlfriend.


She was still angry


about stuff.



Remembered Dream 77


My pregnant sister in a fit


of inspiration & labor names


her unborn child after


(water breaks) the brand


of shoes she is wearing.



Remembered Dream 78


It was an interactive country


club money making conference


meeting.  A heavy cardboard


placard, made to look


like a painter’s easel, announced:


“Repetition is the Blessing.”


Free coffee beamed in


its bright silver canisters


along the window overlooking


the impinging green


of the golf course.



Remembered Dream 84


I called it “The Propeller”


and it won me first


prize in the annual standing


broad jump competition.



Remembered Dream 85


First prize in the annual standing


broad jump competition was a week’s


stay at an exclusive Hollywood


retreat.  Mud baths, Swedish


massage, veal stuffed with lobster


stuffed with some kind of tropical


fish.  I watched as Harrison


Ford, dressed like my father, pitched


his new virtual real estate bonanza—


proposed name:Vermontana


I lost a billion dollars of someone


else’s money in the empty


eyes of some hard-boiled


girl in a tennis skirt.



Remembered Dream 89


She almost ran me over on her riding mower.


I hadn’t seen her since High School. 


She was still living at home. 


She wanted to know if I wanted to get stoned.


Her hair was exactly as I’d remembered it. 


For her work at the shoe store she was paid in shoes.


Her real name was unpronounceable.


She gave me a Superball the size of a human skull.


It contained only swirls.





The girl who’s missing


a leg thinks I’m pretty


nice.  We accompany each


other to the evening


lecture on Degenerative Phantom


Limb Syndrome (DPLS).


On the ride over she


decides I have four distinct


moods: anxious, vague, excited


and lost.  Oh yeah, I am


also missing a leg.





I was bobbing for embarrassing


pictures of myself at the 4th Annual


Alumni Embarrassing Picture Bob.


One of the most embarrassing


pictures pictured me bobbing


for embarrassing pictures the year


before.  Boy was I embarrassed.






It was 2003, the year


of the great Polar Horse


migration.  Winter had


been hard and our igloos


were in a wild state


of disrepair.  In preparing


to film the stampede, we had


underestimated the throng


of rogue horse thieves.


They’d do just about


anything to get their hands


on a healthy Polar Pony.



Remembered Dream 166


Dissatisfied with the farm


life allotted to us, we


hid in the fields and jumped


the first low flying biplane.


When the authorities hauled


us back to the farm, we


hitched out the next


day with a traveling nut







full skull


in the decanter

of day, lantern

of night, high


moon, lower


sun, the morning

light that dives


and lies still, lives

and dies on the brow


of those mountains


Poems by Chris Martin



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