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Literature Text
To be a writer
Means to have yet another excuse for bad behavior.
It means that when I sit next to you and I am wrestling the
smoke from your cigarette like a bear I want to believe
we'll end up on the floor in gritty film rolls and beer cans
and start to choke.
Because I remember how the whiskey made her eyes
shine and her her hair a swimming pool. When she took
me aside and said
"You two are going to destroy each other," with a little
Parisian smile. Expecting one day to read great mythology
that we made with bread knives we stuck in each other's
eyes.
So one day I felt like being more clever than
romantic and I caught you by the shoulder
And I said,
"You know, we're going to destroy each other."
You didn't laugh but I saw you wanted to because
your mouth was like a tepid hurricane and your hands
were reaching out the window to throw a tree at me.
And you said,
"No, darling, I don't have time for that."
It was spring and all that was in your hands
was rabbit water and flowers.
You know what it means.
It means I will tell you my dog was a Russian cosmonaut.
If I fuck someone they become my new editor. I get jealous
when a husband kills some other wife's seven children.
It means that sometimes I remember what you
once said to me.
It's quiet here at the edge of the room. I'm
learning we're not all meant for tragedy, at least
not all at once.
I want to sit here working when the next luckless
paramour busts down my door
And push her away.
Means to have yet another excuse for bad behavior.
It means that when I sit next to you and I am wrestling the
smoke from your cigarette like a bear I want to believe
we'll end up on the floor in gritty film rolls and beer cans
and start to choke.
Because I remember how the whiskey made her eyes
shine and her her hair a swimming pool. When she took
me aside and said
"You two are going to destroy each other," with a little
Parisian smile. Expecting one day to read great mythology
that we made with bread knives we stuck in each other's
eyes.
So one day I felt like being more clever than
romantic and I caught you by the shoulder
And I said,
"You know, we're going to destroy each other."
You didn't laugh but I saw you wanted to because
your mouth was like a tepid hurricane and your hands
were reaching out the window to throw a tree at me.
And you said,
"No, darling, I don't have time for that."
It was spring and all that was in your hands
was rabbit water and flowers.
You know what it means.
It means I will tell you my dog was a Russian cosmonaut.
If I fuck someone they become my new editor. I get jealous
when a husband kills some other wife's seven children.
It means that sometimes I remember what you
once said to me.
It's quiet here at the edge of the room. I'm
learning we're not all meant for tragedy, at least
not all at once.
I want to sit here working when the next luckless
paramour busts down my door
And push her away.
Literature
Uncoordinated Longitude
When I picked up the phone she told me that she missed the trains
and the way the rain smelled in the summer.
I scratched a pattern in the table with my thumbnail. I stretched
the phone cord between my fingers and said I was sorry.
She asked what I had to be sorry about and I told her I didn't know.
I twisted the cord into a clover shape while I remembered
her laugh when we picked up the penny off of the tracks, tossing it
back and forth, watching it catch the light and throw it back.
She asks me where I am and I know she does not ask where so much
as why.
Literature
Regulars
Jon and Carol came in as they do
every day
she clutching a bit of cloth to
her face and being unable
to give me an honest look and
Jon being overly enthusiastic about
his coming meal
(I am a goddess because I
bring them food.)
They met each
other outside the bathroom,
gazed across the table with a fifty
year old expression
and the only emotion I have
ever heard in Carol's
ancient, cracking voice
is when she calls him baby
Repeatedly I wonder, if or when
I give up my mind
to age and black eyes,
will we do this? Drink tea
with too much sugar
and have a waitress that will
be overly concerned if we
don't show our wrink
Literature
snowbones
holding my hands over the kettle
the skin on my fingertips peels back,
like dated wallpaper,
like flowers blooming.
they're burning from the inside out,
nails turning to varnish, turning to steam,
bones click-clacking their way out;
spreading like wildfire.
the whistling stops, and
blink
and my fingers are just fingers,
ink stained, bitten nails.
sunlight streams across the kitchen,
my fingers warm and
slightly damp, i trace patterns on
steamed-up windows.
Suggested Collections
You're beginning to remember what it's like
those days as a Civil War soldier, understanding that adventure sometimes mean you'll end up with your
stomach on the grass
and wolves and badgers will crawl out of their holes to
lick at the edges.
That doesn't keep you from wanting to have adventures
and the sex that turns into smoke if you turn just the
right angle.
You know what it means to live, baby
and now you're going to have to go
all the way.
those days as a Civil War soldier, understanding that adventure sometimes mean you'll end up with your
stomach on the grass
and wolves and badgers will crawl out of their holes to
lick at the edges.
That doesn't keep you from wanting to have adventures
and the sex that turns into smoke if you turn just the
right angle.
You know what it means to live, baby
and now you're going to have to go
all the way.
© 2011 - 2024 Snow-Machine
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