ISSUE: Summer 2018
It frogs in from the front and fails.
Concentric broadcasts summit the senses
and slide the faculty a sleeping pill.
I’m in a midsummer custody
like spots caught midway up a giraffe.
From the driving beard of permission
the legation perishes into the coliseum.
It’s a legitimate
intimacy, the rose
of the perishable orgy & geodesy
sumptuous in the sextant’s shade.
It’s a serious setback. The gasoline quivers
a servile propinquity, swept by the
greenbrier in a swivel chair
but the lieutenant
gourmet’s goldfish
has gone unnourished again so has gone golfing
blessed and blameless, bickering and salting.
It’s an uneven undoing.
The thrush shods.
The peacock packs a peach in the possible parenthesis.
Heavyweight, the hearse crutches close
the gazelles are enjoined. Extraordinary.
Such scrollwork from such eye teeth.
Hey, Travis, I’m at some bar in the Mission
by myself and remembering last winter
what we saw in Montana, stopped for gas
as the first snow fell and we had to
go around the mountains
the three blue
barrels that said deposit elk hides here
overflowing and even below freezing
the death smell—it’s stayed with me, Travis.
Thanks for help driving. Anyone else would have
said too much about it
Thought I’d tell you
I was thinking about the invisible knots
that bind together the part of the world
I’m falling from to the end
either like a gutter
in pursuit or the prey, the elk on the trail
antler-first. I want a late night with the wild
people who keep danger
taped to the inside
of their encounters. I want to help them burn
down the company picnic
and remain
in their heads to show to the beautiful lizard inside
help with the parcels and the empties
and the next day unchanged or even tired.
