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Steve Abbott. Long Haul on the Interstate.

13 May

Steve Abbott. Long Haul on the Interstate.

5 Apr

Long Haul on the Interstate

Metronomic, the relentless drumbeat of motion
may stutter or slow but never stops,
allows no silence, no interruption of the droning

wheels whirring beneath me like a mantra.
Whatever spins glitter behind my eyes
is diluted by headlights knifing the night,

too frequent for darkness to open
wide enough for me to look, question
where I’m flying to, fleeing to, belong.

The beat comes up through the road
like a telltale heart dragged over tar
strips, rhythm to what I think is a song

I’m singing as I sling myself headlong into
the landscape within, wide open spaces there
bristling wind and light, everything

headed toward a rough rut in the earth.
This is what drives me: believing
if I stop, the dust I am will settle

over my length as if thrown from a shovel.
Refusing to admit any place I came from
could be saved, any more than I was.

 

 

Steve Abbott

Late in My Sleep. David Marquard.

15 Jan

Late in My Sleep

I am not afraid to sleep but
I am afraid to talk with you
I will go to bed and
I will talk to myself

I will dream in all languages
all at once
but only three will talk to me

penned as a palimpsest
I will sleep incomplete

and while I am alive as I sleep
I will forget what I think to be a moment

described in detail
a constant masquerade will
separate imagination from rationale

and you will be alone
when I begin to talk to you

and the moments will be
recursive and your eyes will close

and here there will be no more
languages and no more dreams.

David Marquard

A Finger, Two Dots, Then Me. Derrick Brown.

14 Jan

Cassandra, California. Kayti Lahsaiezadeh.

13 Jan

Cassandra, California

And even a sunset feels doomed, all chewed up
blue and red like witchfire, like Roman candles

in July. A single callous spark could send
the entire county up in flame. Seven miles

from the base, she can still hear the shells
fall. On her back, she’ll watch the planes

scudding across the upturned bowl of sky,
crush them between her fingers like flies.

Kayti Lahsaiezadeh

Calendar. Carol Poster.

11 Jan

Calendar

I measure time in rotting deer
beside the road, a change
faster than seasons,
slower than sun,
a measure of weeks
rather than days or months.

I see the same ones, again
and again: the antlered male,
the doe beside the drainage
ditch, the spotted fawn.

They grow thinner
every day, as though
they are starving
rather than rotting
away.

Carol Poster

Goya Talks with the Widow. Emily Hipchen.

9 Jan

Goya Talks with the Widow

Here are your eyes.
I make them slits, slits like mouths,
the center just a grey focus,
an empty spot of empty wall.
Where your arms go?
You are dancing. Look.
Here you haul up the rope to hang you.
Here your hands slice at the sky.
Here you curl around a ghost.
Everything smokes upwards
like the beginning of flames.
I draw your sex,
the dry breasts gasping,
pendulous as shadows.
Your hips are empty like
the corners of your mouth.
I want to find you where your legs meet
but that’s also a nothing, a zero, nothing.
I have tried, I swear, with your feet,
flexed them, bent them against
the dirt, each toenail the shell of
an ear, listening to his dust.
You hang there, aghast,
in silence, as I draw the
gunmen who can help you.

Emily Hipchen

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