Martin Rock

Winter 2023 | Poetry

Five Poems from
Infinite Scroll

A voyeur knows what kind of viewer he is,

but looking at [                ], you are not

always a voyeur. Neither are you always a

witness, nor any other single kind of

watcher. Your implied identity slips with

each stroke of the thumb.

 

 —  Dana Tortorici

 

 

 

Here’s the problem:

You think money

is bigger than language.

 

You think language

is bigger than the world.

You think the world

 

of yourself, of money;

of language you think

your own can justify

 

the world you’ve made

by thinking; primarily,

that money is so large

 

even the still-wet leaves

account for nothing

so much as the gardener’s

 

fee for tending them,

for cutting them off,

for making them disappear.

 


 

 

 

 

From bed I scroll myself to the kitchen

                                     upwards I think myself up

                                                     to the office or down

 

                                      it doesn’t matter my body barely moves

it’s like flying thousands of feet

             above an empty city

 

             there’s so much to see without 

                                    focusing anywhere I turn inwardly

to jelly & keep scanning the jelly

 

explodes a nebula into mist

        the horizon slips further away

             what a blessing to have everything

 

         so close I can nearly taste it

your body so close we’re both at the bottom

               of our own rectangles

 

we keep scrolling to find ourselves  

inside ourselves beside one another 

we’re both weightless above

 

this groundlessness the one that 

teaches how far to dig how far 

to never stop digging knock knock

 


 

There are holes in the West the size of genealogies the
size of historical novels of battleships in the West there are holes the size of wind patterns mouths of hungry ghosts the size of Amazons of bank accounts we gobble up code we swallow code we absorb it into ourselves and become entirely new bodies in the West a machine reveals the broken-up materials of ships underfoot the West is a mouth that consumes species and regurgitates code it bubbles forth on the screens of mothers in the West that bequeath their children the inevitability of entering the earth eventually and forever what grows does so irreconcilable to matter it consumes us we see only growth see numbers become death the great feast we are reduced to a ledger of bland indistinguishable snacks

 


 

 

 

diary of mistakes, entry #2:

 

behind the shed I was twelve

[               ]’s mother

caught us in the dirt

looking at porn I meant

fourteen I meant Hustler

we spent hours I meant

our hands were filthy

inside the house was a film

of grime on the walls

y'all should know she said

a real woman’s body I felt sick

she was so towering thick

I had to get home y’all can see

me naked I got on my bike

blackout fast heart racing

the next time I saw a nipple

was at the same house

[                ]’s dad bought

a computer we watched

a woman appear one

pixel-height line at a time

the modem shrieking

out the birth of something

beautiful contorted into

something also beautiful 



 

 

 

The West is a product

                               of desire without reason

                a kind of unattainable taunt

 

even Outside is a brand

                               everyone sleeps in the West

                technology is a blessing we forget

 

to put down we sleep in we forget how to dream

                              we think about ownership

             over even each other’s bodies

 

even the sky in the West even the ocean

                              belongs to the economy

               the ground moves under us

 

like styrofoam plates the taste in our mouths

                             is plastic the West sings to us

              it opens its mouth to make

 

promises something beautiful and perfect

                               something finally

               and disquietingly fulfilling something

 

just up ahead beyond the next frame

                                something always just there

                 when finally it blossoms

 

we’ll be waiting anxiously to cut

                              and eat the bloom to suck

               the fruit and crush the bitter seed

Martin Rock is the author of Residuum, Editor’s Choice for the 2015 Cleveland State University Poetry Center’s First Book Prize, and Dear Mark, an ekphrastic chapbook in response to the work of Mark Rothko, published by Brooklyn Arts Press. His work appears in Best American Experimental Writing, Best New Poets, Poem-a-Day, AGNI, Black Warrior Review, Conduit, Waxwing, Copper Nickel, Colorado Review, and elsewhere. Winner of the Donald Barthelme prize in poetry and recipient of multiple writing fellowships, Martin holds an MFA from New York University, where he was Editor in Chief of Washington Square Review, and a PhD from the University of Houston, where he was Managing Editor of Gulf Coast. Having taught writing, literature, and ecocriticism at NYU, University of Houston, California College of the Arts in Oakland, and Berkeley College in Manhattan, he is now a Faculty Lecturer at UCSD’s Seventh College, where he teaches at the intersection of writing and climate action. With Kevin Prufer and Wayne Miller, Martin co-directs the Unsung Masters series, which recently published Bert Meyers: On the Life and Work of an American Master.

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