all-in with the acronyms

Compilation of this work—containing more than 5,000 entries—was commenced in 1965. Reference is still made, though little retrospection has been attempted and some organizations no longer exist. I acknowledge the forbearance of whomever deserves. Therefore, acknowledgment is made to Eric Pugh. Specifically in August of 1967.

LIMIT IDEALS, IRIS. HATS ECHO TIDE. OLD PAIR, TRIP. CUE COSMOS, BASIC BALLOTS ASCEND ZENITH. WHO VITAL TRIAL TREND TRAP. SUGAR TREE STRIP STEP STATE. AID, ADAPT, AIM. BEST BET, BEACON. CALM CHILD, CAB. CODED COINS. COMPARE COMPASS. COSTIC CRESTS—DART/DASH. FAST, FIRST FIST. GHOST GUIDE HAS FORMAT. LEAN LACES LIFT LESS IMPACT: HERO. LOCATE LUCID LYRIC. MASS MEDIA: MESS. NOMAD ON NAMES MISS PACE. PATTERN OCEAN PILOT.

hunger

hunger by Ian Ernzer

because animals
can no longer
take care of themselves

I feed my heart
to the dog
but it's not hungry

so I shove the heart
into its mouth
you're hungry I tell it

olive trees at Saint-Rémy

olive trees at Saint-Rémy by Ian Ernzer

I've never been here
but I know it well
these colors have no
representation but to one

olive trees fill my range;
a sky carved—twists—
full of flat colors—
branches wrestle themselves

cliché

cliché by Ian Ernzer

he's a cliché—an invisible man
kissing, you realize something's missing
you let her edit, and you really should
give credit where credit is due

egg

egg by Ian Ernzer

women carrying fabergé

ostrich eggs on a cold Italian train

abound with anonymous nouns

that astound. listening to coltrane

wearing two pairs of socks,

not for walking.

places and things

places and things by Ian Ernzer

highlands below citrus groves
off-key windpipes rattle
vitamin-c street lights flower
through hollow coastal fog
red plaid imprint on my skin
from an antique couch
knick-knack treasure arrays
stuck in time arranged
this and that way
near scenes of other places
on walls that separate us

silence anticipates options

silence anticipates options by Ian Ernzer

streets, lined with cherry blossom trees
silence, a social characteristic
street noise, seemed louder

after hours our items arrived
anticipated answers of translated questions
always accept gifts, exclude altercations

options opened under new directions
opposed opinions offered by over and under achievers
our achromatic outlook from observations of oil-paintings

passing through

passing through

sweat stinging skin, pricks poking past
the threshold that defines patience
saturated air soaked minutiae of the day
articles begging to be remembered

shaded by concrete. overhang sticky
coated with black smoke from buses
transporting ladies with empanadas,
pan dulce and children’s cola stained lips,

tequilla-breathed men and one man.
one man dressed in all white dark skin
sheathed with green and purple ink
he says something to me and my heart drops

alone amongst a bus station bloated with bodies
furious hands clench my neck
tattooed tears falling from his eyes he feels the cash that is
wet from sweat sitting in my pocket

then I come to, in english he says, “‘s hot huh?”
si muy caliente. words that he expels are
deported. ten years in jail. L.A. gangs.
I excuse myself and return

with two large cold waters to cool us down
we cannot escape the sweat
as we sit during our life story swap
friends’ names are dropped

places to go, there and here—stay clear
another broken bus arrives
he says that’s my bus, I have to go.
if you’re ever in california I say

dark and light hands shake
adios to him and the woman around his arm
tears falling from his eyes
as we leave this place and onto the next

Australia

Australia by Ian Ernzer

my red four wheeled vessel
took me from the Gold Coast
to Wollongong. miles, sorry,
kilometers of gigantic greens
and eucalyptus trees above
yellow koala-crossing signs.
sleeping by yourself in a tent
in a thunderstorm can be scary.
after clouds cleared I watched
satellites shimmer below stars
and imagined someone
looking down on me from one.
unimagined hospitality
got me through hunger pangs.
a father saw me lighting a fire.
he told his two boys to go help
the helpless American.
ten mosquitoes suck, literally.
alone again, trying to sleep,
something outside my tent—
shun a light on nearly twenty 'roos.
I heard one munching on grass,
then, it farted, and
I laughed myself to sleep.

somehow there's no movement

somehow there's no movement
by Ian Ernzer

onomatopoeia bullet with bite marks
arching darts at the center part
our children can't grow up
again I grab the darts and throw
wood with rotating wheels
silent shouts internal fields
a plane might crash cars might fly
fall of the night come winter it dies
rotation of muscle offset in the chest
thrush birds sing on a concrete ledge