James Grinwis has two books forthcoming in '11: The City from Nome
from TNPR Press and Exhibit of Forking Paths from Coffee House
Press, which was recently selected for the National Poetry Series.
He founded Bateau Press in '06 and his poems have appeared
recently in Lungfull, Crazyhorse, and Puerto del Sol.


It is available, the dream from the non-dream,
the look by Kyle.

Kyle is snappy and holds things
for us to examine.

There is a large white oak in a large field
but no one throws a ball or a Frisbee around there
because it's a highway divider.

To feel good depends on how alterations,
altercations, images, sounds, atmospheres
are visited and handled in terms of sense processing

and comfort level. I do not know how Kyle feels
in his looks.

It's probably still sleep.

Breughel universe of frozen ponds and archways
to push silence through
or no longer push.

Starness: an abasement in progress,

a story sunk to the end of the earth, like a turnip
or a turnip's grandfather exploding.

Allegro Molto

If my friends could lose our achilles' heels and meld, we would make a 007.
Wind moves into the room and the spirits in the wind lend their company.
It is odd, the way things happen on that street.
I can love her and love her and love her.
The face in the declamation points to you, too shrewd sailor.
What they do to too shrewd sailors is kill them.
Thank you, shrewd sailors, say the sharks. We paste the bird glue
to the flanks of the ship.
There are some words that stand tall,
I don't know, please help me, the little cello vest clutches my throat,
Bond or no bond or any kind of bond.


Watching from behind a big screen
some discussions induce dizziness
formulas, What are they talking about?
May take days to figure
oboes like old sailing vessels
The way one you thought of often may
never have thought of you
done-over themes like that
solar storms
wombat feeding rituals
a habit of making lists of unrelated things
in order to what, escape from something?
or make of the past a manageable box
full of limitless possible objects
that are warm coasts in which one basks and sleeps


Of the tarantula, nothing was said.

It just sat there in a third space of the room.

Rob grabbed it and stuffed it into a deep frier.

"We are a friery here, it is my business."

Little was said
during the conversation where semblances
appeared and disappeared

like how it was for the kids
hiking up a hill named Medusa. The snakes in the path

made a little noise as our knees scurried from their sockets
and gave birth to clams,

clams which snuck upon us when we crested the ascent
and sucked out our epidermises, making us anatomical shells

and as the clams supped
and spat-up our partially digested skins

we watched the images
play themselves out

on the crushed mosaic and statues full of sand.

It was otherwise very dark.

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