issue 3
I want to roll in this moment until I become its vocabulary
until I smell like the bones
until I am its echo…
And then he feels that familiar sensation of drifting—when his body untethers from the material world and he soon dissolves into a fine, floating mist that evaporates into the atmosphere.
Darkness always follows.
Do not say anything anybody else has said ever. Things are not “bleached by sun.”
My mother has been dead for two hundred and forty-three days. I’ve had plenty of things in my refrigerator for longer.
Should have found a job by now; should have slept in the night;
should have boiled old coffee before noon.
Even as the sun warms the concrete
the long nights’ sensual cold lingers in my clothes.
I tap at the alphabet while a single deer
taps at the dirt beyond the brush
on the far side of the tree line.
A tortured simper uncoils itself across my mouth as I open another bottle of Penis wine.
My dad was an inveterate theatergoer in the old country where theatre reigned supreme before the Soviets, under the Soviets, after the Soviets.
I buy too much, for someone of my stature.
could pawn a skinny metaphor to purchase a plump skin.
its reputed in our lineage— to daydream a life that shreds our pockets.