Christine O’Leary-Rockey

The studio lights disappear in a fan-like array
of almost gymnastic sweetness
and the feel of velour-
60's style...

Eh, wot- just gone? occluded by the son
probability speaks
to engaging the triumphal return of
scores of Australian jackrabbits
shamefully beaten with stones and festival
sweet grass. Ah,
To see spring in merry old England again!

An oaken chair is waiting
for the hollow man-
he of little tides and tanks
rolling forth in the direct proclamation
of summer, subterfuge
and the sound of three hands clapping

a monk is left on the other side
still holding the weight
of the fat lady.
and chains.

murmur retribution and its wheels
with me...
shushushushushushu

Mercury in Retrograde

Running water/wasp at screen/ its legs
Prick the metal not burning/ nothing burns
Like silence/ except for the sound
Of betrayal./ It is a cry all its own

And stands the creature in its own light, declaring
That Consciousness is the knowledge of shame.

Aquinas’ unmoved mover stands
braced by the chaos of movement. Only weather is as cruel.
Amidst this we formed language,
Etching out symbols. Phonemes granted faces
And unions that beget new sounds through which to paint by.

Man began to lie upon switching from picture to sound
Pictures intrinsically linked to actuality- irresponsible sound
Habituated to be/ random/ and therefore unreliable/
Capable of betrayal/. One cannot trust a sound that has no face/
to bind it.

On the Dunes

A twisting shift
A shimmying rift-a writhing
Little ball that needs to be unwound…
I am waiting for the waves to do it
Under the guise of sudden sound

It giggled when the waves froze- it’s voicelessness
Tinkled like a girl
That
Did it
That is the sound for what and for which

That gasp of nothing- beautiful heavy
Pregnant pause
A silence
happened when the waves fell together
then the sea
Inhaled
I caught it once –
Making our way through the strangest sand
And rolling banks- the sea got stuck between
My children who danced through- unlistening again.

No one listens. But I
forget
when the sun’s oil is spread across the water
For a moment this dying ball becomes
a pearl- mirroring against
gray and waves
and waves
and waves…

Midnight quiet- night flashes her hips
across the drop of the land
through the kelp beds
clattering its fingers in the green phosphor
of the sea

This night
Someone somewhere is: Praying,
Some one some where- is Eating. Birthing, Seeking.
Climbing. Falling, Sleeping. Dying.
Dreaming. Someone is Starving, Seeking, Rising.
Someone somewhere is Rose.

Biography

Christine O’Leary-Rockey would like to consider herself a practicing philosopher, but the title reeks of arrogance so instead describes herself as “only loosely in touch with reality,” She has been published in both print and online publications, including Planet Magazine, The Fledgling Rag, Steel Pointe Quarterly, Harrisburg Magazine, and Megaera, and was nominated for a Pushcart Prize in November, 2007"

	Christine O’Leary-Rockey
Home Archives Guidelines Contests Letter Links Tips The important words are underlined by Maurice Oliver Did I ever tell you about the time oil from/ a leaky canister seeped into my thoughts/ then expressed its dissatisfaction with my/ sexual life. Nonesuch Dreams and Wills by Ray Succre Her discovery of him will also be gradual/ [X=X+1]; she does not startle anymore./ She has been alive [cavity] before. The Mob by Doug Draime He: How we gonna do it? She: Don’t ask me, you’re the one with the gun He: Can’t use the gun. She: Why? He: Never bought any bullets... Spudadelic by Jeff Crouch visual art centered around one dietary staple Sometimes Suicidal by Aimee DeLong Sometimes a suicidal person fixes her hair. Sometimes she looks in the mirror to smooth it. Sometimes she goes four days without washing it. Last Night at Southport by Justin Hyde tell her i'm a butterfly with sixteen wings beating in succinct anarchy. Categorical Imperatives by Maurice Oliver Try to imagine a small room where the only/ furniture is a TV. The TV has a hundred/ channels and two sets of memories. Beerwigs by George Anderson 1. A canoe full of moose meat 2. Beerwigs 3. The Great Vodka Massacre 4. The Bootlegger & the Professor 5. Puke-O-Gram Visual Art by Claudio Parentela Poverty by Papa Osmubal I saw a handful of dead cockroaches/ on the floor this morning./ You must have filled the house/ with your endless litany of dammits’ and ‘bullshits’/ while chasing them with last week’s paper/ you borrowed next door for the purpose. dance a line by Sophia Kidd i get stuck thinkin' of words/ and meanings of you and of him/ the smell of leaf/ on dirt Contagion necessaries: sensorial numb by Kenneth Mulvey reach into pocket/ for a light/ to find I pissed/ myself again Pamela in the Spring by James Dilworth I can't talk in the human way, I tried to learn without success. I could only watch her day after day, as the seasons began to change and the world grew colder. The lost art of visualization by Andy Riverbed Now that I think about it;/ I’ve realized I don’t like poetry/ and I don’t like literature; I/ hate movies and music is nauseating;/ my job is a boring mind-/ numb. Dream by Cecelia Chapman A short movie	The studio lights disappear in a fan-like array of almost gymnastic sweetness and the feel of velour- 60's style... Eh, wot- just gone? occluded by the son probability speaks to engaging the triumphal return of scores of Australian jackrabbits shamefully beaten with stones and festival sweet grass. Ah, To see spring in merry old England again! An oaken chair is waiting for the hollow man- he of little tides and tanks rolling forth in the direct proclamation of summer, subterfuge and the sound of three hands clapping a monk is left on the other side still holding the weight of the fat lady. and chains. murmur retribution and its wheels with me... shushushushushushu dingo sounds. Mercury in Retrograde Running water/wasp at screen/ its legs Prick the metal not burning/ nothing burns Like silence/ except for the sound Of betrayal./ It is a cry all its own And stands the creature in its own light, declaring That Consciousness is the knowledge of shame. Aquinas’ unmoved mover stands braced by the chaos of movement. Only weather is as cruel. Amidst this we formed language, Etching out symbols. Phonemes granted faces And unions that beget new sounds through which to paint by. Man began to lie upon switching from picture to sound Pictures intrinsically linked to actuality- irresponsible sound Habituated to be/ random/ and therefore unreliable/ Capable of betrayal/. One cannot trust a sound that has no face/ to bind it. On the Dunes A twisting shift A shimmying rift-a writhing Little ball that needs to be unwound… I am waiting for the waves to do it Under the guise of sudden sound It giggled when the waves froze- it’s voicelessness Tinkled like a girl That Did it That is the sound for what and for which That gasp of nothing- beautiful heavy Pregnant pause A silence happened when the waves fell together then the sea Inhaled I caught it once – Making our way through the strangest sand And rolling banks- the sea got stuck between My children who danced through- unlistening again. No one listens. But I forget when the sun’s oil is spread across the water For a moment this dying ball becomes a pearl- mirroring against gray and waves and waves and waves… Midnight quiet- night flashes her hips across the drop of the land through the kelp beds clattering its fingers in the green phosphor of the sea This night Someone somewhere is: Praying, Some one some where- is Eating. Birthing, Seeking. Climbing. Falling, Sleeping. Dying. Dreaming. Someone is Starving, Seeking, Rising. Someone somewhere is Rose. Biography Christine O’Leary-Rockey would like to consider herself a practicing philosopher, but the title reeks of arrogance so instead describes herself as “only loosely in touch with reality,” She has been published in both print and online publications, including Planet Magazine, The Fledgling Rag, Steel Pointe Quarterly, Harrisburg Magazine, and Megaera, and was nominated for a Pushcart Prize in November, 2007"
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Christine O’Leary-Rockey

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Mercury in Retrograde

On the Dunes