Ben Mirov is the author of Ghost Machines (Slope Editions, 2016), Hider Roser (Octopus Books, 2012), Ghost Machine (Caketrain, 2010) and the chapbooks Vortexts (SUPERMACHINE, 2011), I Is to Vorticism (New Michigan Press, 2010), and Collected Ghost (H_NGM_N, 2010). He grew up in Northern California and lives in Oakland.
“Mirov’s poems are like dead soul dispatches from an emotional robot. Contained in them is the terrible recognition of the mere materiality of the universe—and that somehow arising from that is an irrational attachment to friends, loves, and a man named Ben Mirov. The poems are an attempt to speak of these things, often opening into imaginative spaces tinged with the absurd. The continued disconnect between what the speaker describes and what he may or may not feel is funny, until it’s revealed to also be sad.”
I stare out of my window with a flashlight behind each eye.
I do not know what I am looking for.
The bushes barely quiver in the wind.
A few people get into a mauve truck.
I return to my couch.
Darkness creeps into the corners of the microwave.
A river disappears into a plastic coffee cup.
I pet a moth as big as a baby.
The desert approaches
inch by ecstatic inch.
What did the lamp say?
Permission to drink ink from the sink?
I feel a vineyard growing inside me.
No need to be alarmed.
Shut the door. Glass of wine. Try to sleep.
My eucalyptus grove can hardly breathe.
Memories of pagoda duck-pond relief.
Diode, diode, nomenclature.
Nocturne for Susie.
The people return to the apartment complex.
Their suits and ties are torn to shreds.
Their cars are barely audible songs.
A grizzly bear snags a salmon made of dreams.
I remove the duct tape from my naked body.
If the sun comes up
I won’t be a different person.