Five Social Media Poems by Jasmine Dreame Wagner

Love Poem (15 Tweets)

I would love to love the small apology in you, the tiny coffin for laws that no longer suit your stillness;

I would love to love the depreciated value of your sources as you loop forth complete as marriage/mirage;

I would love to love you, imaged in stone on the harmless morning when the suicide bombers lay down their howls; you the intern,

you the multinational; you, out of temperature, geography, oath; you in past participle, active and passive verb tenses,

the auroral, the negated, the neglected, the blue, the cinder; I would love to love the tiny thinness of the wick at your candle’s center;

I would love to love you in the house where the senses gather about the dinner; where you, basic, diurnal, manifold, contemporaneous,

you are, like the house, a redemption of the sun’s teenage recklessness;

a pure product of windmills and syllables, the error of flour, of rubber, of chocolate chip cronuts; I would love to love your error,

remove the depthlessness from the mastiff, the microchip, the hurtles of track and field, and all extraneous guitar gear;

your blood, the steel of your indecent character, the clutchless vehicle, the witchy coven of clouds; to whom I may offer

this love’s apologies: the radio, the mausoleum, Moonface and Drake, fissures of clarity, laurel-wreath bullshit, mounted cops w/shocksticks

I would love to love you as a mouse clicks on a stranger in a grainy YouTube video, a mixture of the real and the tame

that becomes the cement into which I am poured, preserved, sunk, unturned;

and into which I would love to love the small fitness in you, the crack so fine, so perfectly formed, like a tuning fork

on a Monday morning.

 

My OkCupid Profile (Vol. 1)

My self-summary

I knew it was up to me to navigate life for myself. The open territory made me think of a song I once heard whose lyrics went: Tristeza não tem fim, Felicidade sim (sadness has no end, happiness does.) In fiction, a lie is acceptable as long as it is consistent. In nonfiction, the only acceptable lie is the lie of omission. In poetry, we omit the end, we omit

What I’m doing with my life

A girl with a flat Midwestern accent, wearing a necklace made of shark’s teeth, waits for me after class. She waits for the class to exit the classroom. If this were the last blog post you could ever write, what would you say? she asks. If you were writing an email to your future children, what would you say? I tell her: this is the triumph of memory over forgetting

I’m really good at

Shopping in a mall where everything’s on sale, in a world where everything is up for sale. Sprinklers dazzling the uniformly cut monoculture lawn. Combing a Zen garden under an LCD sky, the quartz rocks white as crack cocaine. The effect of monumentality where nothing illicit has ever happened

The first things people usually notice about me

Serial self-portraiture

Favorite books, movies, shows, music, and food

Books: Bats swooping over the canal. Pawn shop receipts on the table. A stack of $3500 in cash. Under the computer keyboard. Murky flip-phone photos. Movies: Peyote ground to dirt in his fingernails. May the market force be with you (and also with you). Shows: The woman with the vacuum cleaner. The woman from Chicago. The woman with the midtown studio. They all disappeared. Music: The filmmaker who warned you: he tells you these things so that you know. That way he’s a good person—he warned you about himself. If you don’t heed his warning, what happens to you is your fault. Food: My gut, my gut, it knows. I know in my gut something awful

The six things I could never do without

A revolving door
The myth of total availability
Music pushed to the back of the closet
Voluptuous, monotonous, lunar reliefs of ancient lake beds
Expensive banality
An Indian summer, robust in its mildness, presaging snow
The heir to all cities, real and imagined
The sirens, day and night
The portfolio manager’s daughter, my bestest, -estest friend

I spend a lot of time thinking about

The desalination plants of Dubai. Maxed-out expats sleeping in sand dunes, in airport terminals, in waiting rooms and parking lots of car rental franchises. The defunct pipelines of an air-conditioned beach. The abandoned runnels of an Olympic slalom. The black leather sofas of New York City. The ice cubes of Salt Lake City. The grand dames of Atlantis

On a typical Friday night I am

An influence. Frustrated and complimented at the same time. Cinematic, looking out over the statuses that have been constructed over the mirror. Thinking of a song whose lyrics went: A mulatto, an albino (happiness has no end, sadness does)

The most private thing I’m willing to admit

There are people headed towards you. You can’t see them coming, but they’re going to love you when they arrive

I’m looking for

Guys and girls who like guys and girls
Ages 0-100
Near me
Who are single and attached
For new friends, activity partners, long-term dating, short-term dating

You should message me if

The same obscure sadness; the same old nebulous melancholy. The direct result of my own hand. Feeling up the leg of the planet. The system on the other side of the turnstile. A culture that will tell me that wherever I go, whatever I do, something significant happens. A punch line to a sick joke. An assortment of affordable accessories that mean something certain and symbolic about people living as we do in a golden age of click farms and global markets and personal brands. Living where we do—that is, everywhere

 

My OkCupid Profile (Vol. 2)

My self-summary

There are days when being merely visible seems to be the answer. There are days when my attitude, like a brightly painted wall, can occupy or empty a room. There are days when forgiveness seems to be a resource locked-up in California Redwoods and unless we find a new, renewable source of mysticism, there can be no mercy in the modernized world

What I’m doing with my life

When success is measured in numbers of views, sleep is an affront to capitalism

I’m really good at

The last remaining zone of dissidence. Low-power standby mode. The summer lethargy of hydroencephalitic begonias

The first things people usually notice about me

The horrible feeling that comes from being ignored / Market terror

Favorite books, movies, shows, music, and food

Books: Hot plate, Bunsen burner, Hot Cha matchbook. Sulfur, benzene, hydrofluorocarbon. Movies: A pilot light, the coils of an electric range, a naked lady lighter. Shows: The black spot in the middle of the wick of the candle. Music: A traffic flare. Satellite scrap re-entering the atmosphere. Food: At an unflattering angle. Because obliqueness makes it palatable. A napkin, curling into ash

The six things I could never do without

Symboline, I fed her Borges and Zildjian cymbals; I fed her boiled cygnets and birth control pills. I can’t tell you what she meant to me, describe the good life Symboline represented. She wore a heavy backpack, developed scoliosis; she was tormented, fought back, was dismissed, expulsed. They held her there in the elementary grades until she began to bleed. Symboline, my royal signet, my genius modified by girl, what can a symbol birth if not for misunderstanding. In the temperate forest of cultural relativism I bought my Symboline a shack, no, a hallowed tree where she lived out life like one of Grimm’s waifs.

This is a story I fear I must tell. It is one of six

I spend a lot of time thinking about

What do you do after receiving a death threat? How do you exit the abstraction

On a typical Friday night I am

Shopping at the love market. Texting and refuting the American precept that those who are financially successful have moral aptitude

The most private thing I’m willing to admit

If you were the last blog post you could ever write, would you publish yourself privately

I’m looking for

Guys and girls who like girls
Ages 18-25
Near me
Who are single
For new friends, activity partners, casual sex

You should message me if

Three characters. Or two. Or four. However many necessary. Assembled in listicle format: top twenty-one shades of abjection, fifty amazing directions for gossip to travel, top thirty-five opinions under scrutiny. Each with equal page count, equally redemptive trajectories. Fill their pages with symbols distributed evenly, pasted on consistently, nestled in equably, bundled up uniformly, with thread count equal to or greater than heavenly, each folded into its neighbor, like in millinery, or Egyptian cotton, or glacial movement, or revolution, or brick masonry, or soil sediment core samples, or fugues, or pedigree, or candle wax

 

My OkCupid Profile (Vol. 3)

My self-summary

I want bread that doesn’t taste like an erasure

What I’m doing with my life

Bc life is sodden with nostalgia like a rum cake soaked with booze

I’m really good at

And though it may seem fuzzy now, the plus perfect incubating

The first things people usually notice about me

What is daily will soon be legendary

Favorite books, movies, shows, music, and food

And a legend can always use a few more leading characters

The six things I could never do without

Bread, space, rum, the past, the present, the entertainment industrial complex

I spend a lot of time thinking about

I invested in the game’s pure artifice

On a typical Friday night I am

It returned my dreck to me, with interest

The most private thing I’m willing to admit

And still I choose, love

I’m looking for

Guys and girls who like guys and girls
Ages (-∞) – ∞
Near me and far away
Who are single and attached
For new friends, activity partners, long term dating

You should message me if

I pull to the side of the road to rescue snapping turtles

 

Military Spring (5 Tumblr Posts)

militaryspring:
militaryspring:
militaryspring:
militaryspring:
militaryspring:

Spring
O Spring
The billions sold
stream in me
And when I walk
through the city
beam after beam
catches the filigree
Iron rails the red
on green copper
There the billion streams
There the white ring
the spectral corona
over the colored cereal

Spring
O Spring
The decade’s late
designs align over
the garbage and
beside the canal
the lazy canal
backbends of halo ivy
Everything grabbed
in the early screen
shot turns red
and TV blue
and lurks shimmering
on in satin houseplants

Spring
O Spring traverses
meanings; Man
feels credit
debt and animals
as his family, this
Wharholian birthright
this monotony
industry, this ideal
a sequel to
so many many movies
Stem Cells Unlimited
Epigenetic registries
New currencies

Spring
O Spring the national
debt trills
in me And how
I hum when I run
to the Chase / Bank
after bank the pitcher
the catcher the bonsai
steel tanks the red
in human resources
There the million volts
There the flash
animation the easy and I
pick daisies

Spring
O Spring
(I still have time)
(I still have time)
(I still have time)
(I still have time)
(I still have time)
(I still have time)
(I still have time)
(I still have time)
(I still have time)
(I still have time)
(I still have time)
(I still have time)

 

 

***

Jasmine Dreame Wagner is an American poet, multimedia artist, and musician. She is the author of On a Clear Day (Ahsahta Press) and Rings (Kelsey Street Press), winner of the Kelsey Street Press Firsts! Prize; and six chapbooks: The Stag (Dancing Girl Press), Ask (Slope Editions), Seven Sunsets (The Lettered Streets Press), Rewilding(Ahsahta Press), Listening for Earthquakes (Caketrain), and True Crime (NAP). A songwriter and multi-instrumentalist, Wagner has performed at the CMJ Music Marathon, free103point9 Wave Farm, and the Olympia Experimental Music Festival. She is currently at work on her first studio record for voice, jazz quartet, and chamber orchestra. She lives in Brooklyn.

Image: clipart-library.com

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