Ununbium (Uub) by Deborah Poe
₁₁₂

1.

                               it's the smell of me in between,

                                          of life, before

you are going down,                             you can come

                   through many languages you speak

                                                                              seven

what are the languages—

                                english, arabic

                        dialects you name I can't spell

         (let alone in this elevator)

were you born here, no, when did you

                              sudan               10 years ago

2.

then there's half flurries

cigarette butts beyond the tile

the man in the acura, sunglasses

a cold work horse

carriage

the carrying of no one

there is also the bel cap we neglected

to tip the hot center of being alone

and the couples walking up tomorrow's

Valentine—the old and the young

3.

and this death between my fingers

the apple light—of you can't touch me—

lounge song in “your time has come”

4.

last night i tell my friend  “I can swing

legs on african bone-pattern bench”

which has nothing to do with seven languages

(one big clock swings leaving out Chicago's L)

5.

look back at architecture of beat

call beat contact or encounter

speech erotics

marbled poetics of

“ball” a way of making culture

is the way to make a pebble sing

motherhood punk rockers

earthquake syntax of

language and the mind

self hypnosis in the nerve net

hybridization

a closer experience

with the geological body

the naked king is lear

facing the audience

sitting in your lap

weaving through your aisles

6.

little dog little man (still swinging)

absent moon, present song (still singing)

over slow taxi to the stoplight (clock ticking