Mark J. Mitchell has been a working poet for forty years. His latest full length collection is Roshi:San Francisco published by Norfolk Press. Another, Something to Be (on the subject of work) is due soon from Pski Porch, and a historical novel is on the way. He lives with his wife, the activist, Joan Juster. A small online presence exists https://www.facebook.com/MarkJMitchellwriter/ A primitive web site now exists: https://www.mark-j-mitchell.square.site/
Mark’s work has been previously featured on In Parentheses.
All those naked lights clicked off years ago,
before your loose, broken pieces were known.
You don’t see anything in this long dark.
Feel where you step. Stay inside. Loose stars
are looking for you. Some are harsh, some kind.
Don’t scatter your secrets for them to find.
Remember—this is before times. There’s a now
just arrived. Go ahead, touch it. You’ve known
its name for years. Another light found you
and shaped these pieces into almost runes
that spell your name. Some are harsh. Some the kind
you miss so rarely you almost forgot
their scattered secrets. Now you can find
your way through an old dark. You can let light
warm sorry, healthy flesh. Wandering time
picks you out in crowds you no longer know.
Follow your feet. They’ll show you how to go.
The angel of Friday
perches on the bridge
of your glasses.
He may lean over
but he looks like a rainbow
kissing the lens.
He knows how to make
Your eyesight perfect.
It involves a fish.
He’s given to laughter
the way a heretic
is given to the Inquisition.
The Hollywood Bowl, September 7, 1972
For DW, who was one of the girls
We came for Zappa. Serious music
eluded us. Stravinsky. Five hours.
Hills green as young lust. We were four
teenagers among grown-ups. We picnicked
through the Ebony Concerto—a black stick
painting the afternoon (which of us drove?)
Things slip from memory. We tried to prove
our depths to our girls. Expertly tricked
by Rock stardom, it worked. Four of us loved
Stravinsky through that fall. The microphone
paused strings. Boulez told the Hollywood Bowl
the orchestra would leave early. The news
from Munich. Silence. The great man renewed
strings—The Rite of Spring—Music stands were moved.
Zappa played the devil. Fred (!) drove us home.
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Founded in late 2011, In Parentheses prides itself upon analysis of the current condition of intelligence in the minds of these young people, and building a hypothesis for one looming question: what comes after Post-Modernism?
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By In Parentheses in IP Volume 7
32 pages, published 1/15/2022
By In Parentheses in Volume 6
80 pages, published 10/15/2020
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