1.
The films of Nestor Kacinsky
are like watermelon babies, borne
into water apiary: this pool is a birthing
zone. On Summit Ave., I become a
metaphor, and I have long since doused
myself in redolent cologne. Before
moving on, the past explains itself—
or doesn’t, so you wait; she wasn’t
perfect after all. Even bees appease
nobody, disappearing strangely,
nevermore. Nevermore, a song too
appropriate to avoid being sad. Never-
more, so many people and things,
since-extinct species, the sky itself
once described by throngs of regrets,
passenger pigeons, deadspeak. Alcohol
once was illegal. Melancholy is medieval. I
am tired of one line endings, sadness.
Therefore, write something, and the ceiling
will become more bearable. Perhaps being
nothing more than transparent to sunshine.
2.
In the bay at Summit Ave. I have met
people in earthenware circles, here, there,
hiding behind shrubs, in alleyways and
on balconies. I have tendered green in
swank hideouts, brave rooftops and--
the first time--ducked-down tennis court,
Clark Park. Mass emails don't contain,
anymore, special thanks to kind churches,
but they contain instead references to
another kind of Good--a plant's discovery
of a foreign land, where you forget how
normalcy works (but not entirely). Pain--
think about it--is the hardest feeling to
summon from memory. My brain knows
how to forget. My mind plumbs always
more these times, un-listening. So I will
put flowers un-pollinated in a glass cave,
burn them, and relinquish, something suddenly
undeniable, though undeniably not-a-thing.
This is why I end singly; That is why religion
is a twice endless stew. Social lives are at first
quiet & isolated, then made to order: meaning
is finally brought to bear. Peoples, countdowns.
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