Apocryphal Genesis

By Travis Mossotti

Apocryphal Genesis comes as a reminder of how deeply personal an impersonal world can often feel. The failed promises of the previous centuries are mere preamble to the predicaments of the current one. Humanity' s contentment to entertain the illusion of control over the world around us is also the source of our collective discontent. In Mossotti' s poems, dark humor underpins every turn. His wit cuts through the bang and blab of what passes for polite discourse, and his visions are jarring and delightful in equal measure. His poems cinematically zoom from the exceedingly distant vantages of “ telescopes scraping deeper into the womb / of the universe” to the microscopic “ space between the whirl of electrons.” While the ghost of Apollinaire guides the reader through these haunting poems, it' s the poet himself who' s on display more often than not (like a moth pinned inside a glass case), naked and unadorned. Apocryphal Genesis is a book that' s mature enough to be unimpressed with the trappings of maturity. It' s the first glance the poet' s after, subtle movement of stirrings under the leaf litter, and page after page, Mossotti transforms the cosmically divine into something indelible.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Saturnalia Books
• Release date: Mar 15, 2024
• ISBN: 9781947817630

Book preview

יָשֶׁ֚ח

And whence they came and whither they shall go

The dew upon their feet shall manifest.

—Wallace Stevens, Sunday Morning

APOCRYPHAL GENESIS

The banal loomed large. Windows fogged up

and emojis were fingered upon the glass panes.

Out of the wider bends of Mississippi river mud

crept the creepers that creepeth, while flames licked

clay to fashion bricks for the first Savings and Loan.

Orchid labella unfurled—someone leaned in and said,

my, my, my, while God kept laying two-dollar pony bets

and losing his shirt and wrinkling down the foreskin

of a paper sack and tilting his bottle filled with god

knows what. The sky not yet entirely aflame. Face

of the waters of corporate fountains still profitable,

and on the sixth day, a ragtag group of engineers

slipped on the condoms of creation and flagged

the first outpost on Mars as you overslept (king-sized)

and missed your own coronation. Waters did rise

and rise and the polar caps were like, Whatever,

which was the typical response from their generation.

Whatever, said the mountains laid plane, and,

Whatever, said the reefs melting like candle wax.

Whatever, said the carboniferous bones sludging

tarpit remains where once proud jungles stood

and brought forth friendlier cyclones. Raindrops

tapped against the stream of consciousness like a junkie

looking for his one good vein, waiting for the last

wild thing in Heaven to become undeniably reasonable.

CONTEMPLATION OF A LIVE OAK IN SAN ANTONIO

If I contemplate this tree the wrong way,

I might conclude it’s not a tree at all, which

may indicate that all beauty has evaporated

at last from the world leaving only what

shocks us awake at night, and what good

would that do anyone? No, I conclude this

crooked finger reaching from the earth

is, in fact, a tree—not a symbol or sign

of the density of solid matter. Not a theory

bending towards uniformity or grace under

the pressure of indifferent weather. Not

a new breed of cancer or the pummeling

of hammer on rock. Not bread or discourse

or atmospheric anomaly. I admire how

the skin of the tree stiffens to bark, gray

as a man’s beard in the autumn of his life,

and its leaves rest still upon the still air.

One could paint this tree for hours on end

and the only noticeable change would be

angled light, hues, shadow filling the bark’s

crevasses, darkness spilling over into deeper

shades of black and then the moon grinding

its teeth while dreams begin convalescing:

anger and faith and mild forms of retribution,

telescopes scraping deeper into the womb

of the universe in the way we’ve all become

accustomed to. By nature, I’m not an alarmist,

but I believe this single tree is a problem

we’ve yet to solve and it’s so obviously here,

just an arm’s length away, jutting up from soil

and compacted rock and breathing, yes

breathing, and speaking the language of time

so we might venture to touch it and feel

for once some peace we’ve forgotten

or given up on entirely. There it is though,

in the space between the whirl of electrons.

BOOK(S) OF THE DEAD

Don’t shine what’s expendable.

—Charles Wright, Lives of The Artists

Beauty, beauty, beauty, beauty be damned.

K was not a poet of acclaim—a few journal

appearances, but he never published a book

of his own and died at 49 from cancer. I’m not

sure what any of this means. K was an adjunct

with no health insurance in these United States.

His death was likely preventable. This isn’t

beautiful poetry because the story is ugly

and because mercy sure as hell isn’t charity.

And so K died and the English Department

hosted a memorial service and gave away

his books because he had no family to take on

his library—a library isn’t charity or mercy,

just words stacked vertically, pressed firmly

front to back. And so I took a few books, and inside

Black Zodiac by Charles Wright at the poem

Lives of The Artists I found a ticket stub

for a Yankees game from ’96. Yankees won.

Three