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Poems in Which
Joseph Di Prisco

2000 winner, Dorothy Brunsman Poetry Prize

[Read Sample Poem]

ISBN 0-9657177-5-5
Paper, 77 pages,
$12.00 (Free Shipping)

Cover photo by P. James Fotos

Somehow the speaker in Joseph Di Prisco's new poems manages to install himself in the kitchenware of contemporary culture without becoming a part of it. With a wit that questions as it embraces, Poems in Which provides us with a strong, original voice." —Carl Dennis

"This is a joyous book. Even addressing unquenchable longing and the shadows of death and failure, the lyric engines of these poems propel us with vital combustions." —Dean Young

"Di Prisco mixes the immiscible: an authentic lyric voice and a sense of the self (and world) as dispersed and constructed. His poems are funny, smart, and moving; they quiz the options they exercise but are never coy." —Guy Rotella


Poem in Which He Shares What He Learned Today at the Spa

I should take better care of my biggest organ,
says The Spa News, and they mean my skin. Were
you aware that you shed 5 billion dead skin cells
a day? That dead skin accounts for 80% of household dust?
If you're anything like me, you won't put off hiring
that domestic help. In the spa I also learned, from
watching the younger smooth organs pass me by,
how to grow old gracelessly. In addition, I have
28 thousand pressure points and 72 channels or so
for chi, and the state of California considers my diet
a class B felony. As I wait here in my plush terry
robe and smart red rubber espadrilles, I would
not dream of telling alien abductors where
to harvest, but here's got to be more fertile
than Roswell, New Mexico. Today I found out, too,
that I do not technically need sex to survive,
though it may in fact need me. Have I mentioned,
not to brag, that my second biggest organ is my
linch pin, my third my thalweg—or is it my lunette?
Did you know that when I am in love my biggest organ
sings, that the air tastes sweet, that your name
is a lozenge down the slide of my throat?
I was all primed for the herbal body wrap (though
it was not rosemary and thyme), and up pops the potpourri
migraine again. Which is when it dawned that I too
will someday die and that deluxe spa packages
would not be ill-advised. No wonder on this slick
of ointment all I want for lunch is extra salt
with my six Margaritas. Pry from my face the cucumber
wedges, let me and my supple nib breathe.

© 2000 by Joseph Di Prisco
Poems in Which