NICK MAIONE
from PNEUMATIC EARTH
. . .
VIII
While trimming hedges
on any one day of my life
with one hand behind my back
one infected nostril closed
I am therein astonished at the degree to which I am still beholden
to versions of myself I swear I never authorized
the sun moves through the overcast sky
of a dream I had but can’t remember
where will the color show up along the day
which hands will participate in this work
the sound of a skateboard at lunchtime
my brother mentioning dog food on the phone
the smallest thing recalls a dream
oxygenates the atmosphere of a more viable version
of the natal alleluias
sometimes you’re a NICU of alleluias
God’s new songs quietly cleaning the air
and sometimes you’re the mother at the glass
the heart in her throat filtering it first
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*** ** ***
IX
I found an ancient mask and saw
the great skill across generations it embodies
the counsel, the tribulations, the refinement
that wandering wrought
an icon come to guarantee we find the body
without impediments of the flesh
the crook, visible sign
of who shepherds my anthrotheo(aka folk)loneliness
primal nakedness wrested, not found,
from the prejudices of time
and these days as much as it has always been
the same new way out of the cave
a speech in poisoned air
a dance against disease I touch searchingly
my own
glasses fog but only when I breathe
can’t see with them on
can’t see with them off
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*** ** ***
X
I found an old sketch of the soft palate
above the lumpy flame of the tongue that causes so much damage
there’s a crescent moon with the word soft written inside
surrounded by lines radiating like a sun
I drew it in the summer
there’s the audience to our audience
and then an audience alone
the breathtaking spirit we call community
I died by this breath until I lived
mineral concentrations of applause favoring iron
iron now freed into ochre
ochre made to live by getting shot
through both nostrils with the lightening
of a committed exhale
too many people have died already
they’re never talking about people on earth in general
when they say this
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*** ** ***
XI
We pay them to come poison the air
put yellow flags in the lawn that say poison
but thank heavens the grass is green
not to mention growing
the growth of yesterday was a June
today a January
in the time of quickening
in the time of grace
in the age of asphyxiation
next: everyone sealcoat your asphalt
when is the last time I did anything
for no other reason than that I was honor bound
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*** ** ***
XII
Uncontrollable energy
is controlled with an invitation and generosity
for the sake
the freedom of every thing that will be
is already wrapped in linen
permeated with the oil of its name
though the postcard of an angel playing a violin
has words written on the back: even she has to practice
and even King David
(now there’s a flawed renaissance man)
I imagine during the complicated playing of strings
was often surprised by a body part
an ochre toe suddenly—ha that’s me!—
where he didn’t know he reached
energy: the brush in motion
before it makes contact with the board
note the follow-through
nothing’s alive but begins before its origin
keeps on going after its end
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*** ** ***
XIII
Sense of everything just in time
when one thing’s just in time
I leave this cloth outside in the rain
from somewhere steam rises through
it’s a reunion at least
a kind of animal
I push abundance into the river
watch it float, turn, wetting all sides
maybe is an otter
it disappears a moment—
the feeling before the feeling of making
an enormous mistake—
reappears—
disappears—
reappears with no news—
with nothing to recommend it
except that it’s playing
except that it is its own news
(is within itself, has itself in its mouth)
and cannot be otherwise
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*** ** ***
XIV
One could think for about a thousand years on a garden
it is all there, isn’t it, the vengeance the ruddy earth leaves to God
refusing to refuse prehistoric gifts
the late contemporary salvation discovered there
by, for example, hard old men watering tomatoes, tears in their eyes
understanding women for the first time
the good thing lost will never be found even if found
its lostness rooted for good in the garden, forever part of
a roped-off site of yet-again now-and-then communion
let’s go there and cry I lost blank
(but really say the name of the thing)
and sense cold soft heat
of the moon behind the clouds
the growth of its real life quaking
buried in the earth, grow dammit
this has been called speaking to friends
wherein only what is unreal be feared
a condition soon overgrown by sungold
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NICK MAIONE
Nick Maione’s poetry collection, Infinite Arrivals (Angelico) was published in May 2023. The poems here are from the unpublished manuscript Pneumatic Earth, a recent finalist for the National Poetry Series. His work has appeared in Image, The Common, Tupelo Quarterly, jubilat, and Peripheries, among other journals. Currently, Nick edits the poetry recitation journal Windfall Room and is the founder and director of Orein Arts Residency in Upstate New York. He is also a visual artist and iconographer.
IG: @nmaione_
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A Dozen Nothing 