In Their Own Words
Amanda Nadelberg's “The Victory Portfolios”
The Victory Portfolios
I move to initiate the starling's misery.
Pocket-talk in street lighting he picked
me up with Raisinets, critical doubt on
the 3-D dashboard yielded precarious
sculptures in my symphony of leaves.
Contracts and kings muscling revelry in
gardens, a fat man tries on different
sentences before you. No. In the middle
of the moon.
*
I move to initiate the starling's misery.
You can change the buttons later, Idlewild,
if I were the photographer, foolish and
trashy, a singing fish thrown back into
the sea. (Come with me; I'm a
sprite, I don't know any better.)
Pocket-talk in street lighting he picked
me up with Raisinets, critical doubt on
the 3-D dashboard yielding precarious
sculptures in a symphony of leaves.
Contracting kings muscling revelry in
gardens, fat. No. In the middle of the
moon. A man trying on different
sentences before you.
*
I moved to initiate the starling's mess.
You can change the channel later, Ingres,
if I were the photographer, foolish or
flashy, some fish thrown back into the
scene. Kinder days of the month
circle off but hey, I have myself in the
morning. (Come to me; I'm light and know
better, what I bought was a receptacle.)
Pocket-talk in stark lightning he picked
me up with Raisinets, critical shouting on
the 3-D dashboard yields precarious
sculptures in the symphony of leaves.
Contracted kings mirror reverie in
a garden of cats. No, in the middle of
the moon. A man compiling different
sentences before you.
*
I proved my initiation by the starling's mess.
You can wash the flannels later, Ingres,
if I were the photographer, blue or
nasty, Baltic fish thrown back at the
magazine. (Come; I'm a kike who knows
your mother, I sought a masterpiece.)
Trying to be the lady the month fixes
tragedy or amity on the beach. One of those
bites was just a little too farm. Pockets of
scenic lightning picked me up for no
reason. Cynical, I doubted his intentions
then fielded postprecaution shame without
necessity. My sympathy leaves. "My girl's
getting the paper and a Rolls-Royce" says
the constable. Redacted kings pour beauty
into a lion's syntax. No, in the middle of
the moon. A man competing with different
sentences reducing you.
*
I provided invitations in a starling's dress.
You can watch the animals eat later, después,
but if I were the photographer, big or
splashy, I'd salt the fish limping back to the seas.
(Commas as if striking when they do unto each
other: obscene, abetting, and reprehensible.)
Trying to be a lady the month nixes further
tragedy or amity on the beach. One of those
bites was just a little too fundamental. Pockets
sensing light he picked me up for no apparent
reason. Cynically, I doubled his intentions
for fielded dust auctions, saying without
rejection, my sympathy pities you. "My girl's
paying the piper for a Rolls-Royce," said the
conductor. In fact, the king pours his bounty
into a lion's synapse. No, in the middle of
the moon. Or I kiss him in the pre-recorded
time capsule, clearing my axes, imagining
Killeen, TX, Chagrin Falls, OH, a wall-sound
keeping me mined, simulations while pulling
the drawer over your face, it would be a
hard orchestra. A man I know well
manipulating suites away from me.
Having a kid in the rain.
All rights reserved. Reprinted with the permission of the author.
On "The Victory Portfolios"
I am forever mishearing and misreading surroundings, it's how I edit (others and myself), it's how I practice living and tell jokes and in this small suite I let the method be clearer, I showed my work. Humor is that tracking. Palimpsests are proof of that work. In other poems I wrote called "The Bartleby Poems," I translated homophonically (from English to English) Melville's prose, or the start of it. That is mishearing, majorly, and here also I misheard myself, pulling from the mistakes I'm happy to make because I'm alive. Writing is a form of listening and when we're really lucky it becomes something else. [Insert play-doh pasta maker from previous days.] While looking at them now they sound like someone's dream, I know these lines came from a particular season, summer I guess. I never remember. I wonder if my mother will mind I used the word 'kike.' I remember my brother saying how his friend once called him one. My friend opened the book and said she used to live near Chagrin Falls, and I'd only been addressing a label for someone else when I'd seen it spelled out and caught it for my own. Coincidence is an escape route from ordinary routines. I aim to hover in that fact. The title came by piece of mail.
