a feeling that the colors
are not made
for march
for any month, really
                         the pinging noise of some
                         swings its own mirror
                         into a minor constellation
you tough out
or touch up the things
to take with you
                         and smell
                         the venerable trigger
the feeling of putting your hands
up to the elbow
in a canister of goup – then up
to the neck 

                         the neck
                         of the canister
                         its own feeling
a couch-like, but inexact feel - maybe a futon
a convertible
maybe a bad night
folded sofa
                         you were put by the dry goods
                         a wasp the noise
                         in the window
                         three fingers
                         of light slipped blind
                         from the refrigerator
                         door open
                         a relative
                         calm sat in the chair, smoke
                         huge, hugging
                         the fanblades
                         they tuned the air
a hot summer storm day
feel prices
right on the teevee  
              below the rice
              a roni, the decimal
and come-on-down music
               thick air
               with our breathing
                         any link between
                         humans and their lives
                         is a germ
the foam memory takes back
from beam to track-lighting
Madonna to candle
mood music
              an ocean
              salts in here, the inner
              ear wet
                         smell of birthday smoke
                         wax dripping
                         from the memory
                         of wax
                         and lost hearing
the position of each membered thing shuffles, tailored by repeat
cigarette in the cold
feeling dragged on
the road
before headlights
                         sense of standing before
                         something that could still
                         to a core
                         and shout
                         could fill
                         all the empty, then take
                         off, full block
                         faulting engines
                         gasoline and
                         a tumble-down
                         licked black
                         in the beams
the bone-steady feel of punching old snow
and thud of a break free
snap of human-sized ice
                         between houses horns and shouts
asking wrong
feel of the question
                         face hot-
                         pressed flat
                         to the pad
                         of gym wall
                         quiet side
                         of the dance
                         floor and girl
                         smell close
                         then gone
the friend feel of too much
video game, vodka-
                         the yard
                         a mulch smelled
tic-tac sound of an ignition  feeling someone back
from hunting
                         deer, turkey, dirt
                         mounds, rabbit, squirrel, tree
                         bow slung over right
                         the arm
                         pistol probing
                         a hand
                         from hip 

cardboard cutout
sports figures
hound the night hall  
                         sound of admitting
                         what scary
                         carried from sleep
                         to standing
                         you in another

to make the car start depress the button after
             one keyturn
                         between pedal
                         and steady
the pill caught throat
feeling - too much motion
                         in the back seat
                         words glow further
                         along the piney distance
the truth of their low-like scatter
backlight  pinpoints
all the lightning
            gathered in a jar
            to still there, glass
            smeared the piano
            noise of a radio cat
            calling back the year
a licklip of coal
feel the dipstick pressed
for two seconds
down, then pull
and steady hold
a pocket rag
drip-catching the oil
run along the pliable metal
                         then come home
                         too late feeling, 
                         come home
                         less and
                         at all
a feeling, the home

feeling a clear cut path
               from the tip of salem mtn
                         onward scratched
                         thick with briars – 

the power line’s future
a valley cast lot
for chimney powder, light forms
in the tangle
a series of lines
into knots


Tony Mancus is the author of a handful of chapbooks, most recently City Country (Seattle Review). With Sommer Browning, he co-founded Flying Guillotine Press and currently he co-curates the In Your Ear reading series in Washington, D.C with Meg Ronan. He works as an instructional designer and lives with his wife, Shannon, and their three yappy cats in Arlington, VA