Month: August 2017

Solo

Those were better times for everyone I knew. The saxophone screamed from oiled fingers saying something I can’t remember. Snow came in the winter and left when it was no longer wanted. Even the rain had a job, which was to remind us that nothing dies as slow as the sadness of teenagers. I’m lying: I never understood what the saxophone was saying, the reason our hair was so afraid of our heads, the true purpose of shoulder pads. Bodies piled up under the streets. I kept my windows up to avoid the smell and hung those little green...

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June(ing)

We notice it happening, or as a friend simply said, “No one takes care of each other anymore.” We were walking as the sun set in beach fog, bicycles and homeless men exchanging clothes; let’s just say, our laughter was noticed. Later, at the restaurant bar, I ordered an Aberlauer 12, a big rock in it, a polar bear asleep in shy gold, and I watched as the other patrons receded into the universe that wasn’t yet made; we talked about his boss, the fifty-something workaholic with the twenty-something girlfriend. I told him I believed everyone in America was...

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The One You Feed

Walking out through the trampled marsh grass along the creek, the air turns different— strands of woven light unlocking space around the body. Your brother arranged animal bones on a metal grate above the pit in the woods— slimline jaw with teeth, vertebrae, femur— No one’s built a fire here in awhile though, fern and wild strawberry grown up around everything. He’s started drinking again, sometimes walks out here with a chainsaw, comes back hours later. None of us bother to ask what he’s doing. I bring one of the deer skulls back into the house, sit it in...

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Paradise Recovered

A flaming sword disappears from the angel’s hands We stumble upon paradise in our fig-leaf cloths Your body lightens unburdened and blame returns to my mouth Our eyes close to our naked bodies and we forget everything saccharine withdrawal you disappear into my body wandering through the fields I remember absence the animals roaming unnamed God inhales and my dust retreats into the morning...

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Speaking to the Dead

I didn’t hear your last words or see your last eyes. I didn’t reach you in time, so I sat by your corpse, silently saying goodbye. I am in that process, not sour, not sweet, that yoked speaking which can’t (because the heart won’t let it) utter its whispered last word, but stutters instead like the awful-eyed idiot of love, stroking a hand and thinking it speech. Nothing pulses now from your cold, dead palm; No sounds exit, no language leaks. You’re beyond the infinite weakness of words; I’m still in their thrall, caught in the thrashing eloquence of...

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