FOR ONE OF THEM . NOT TAKEN

 

                                                                                      
                                   …taking root, the chosen place in which to raise
                                       the final tent, where you can walk out into the night
                                         and have your face washed by time, and join up with
                                          the world, with the Great Madness, with the Grand Stupidity.”
                                                         -  Julio Cortázar, “Hopscotch” (1966)

                                                  for Davo, Johnny, Robbie /GT

                                                   Night scolds warming . stomach to back on
          line for life close hanging / Satira's bone wedge discharges, Can't
          go on like this / through prayer fabric slits Save me! code
          slips.
                                                                                 Swipe anime
          swish dock / the comb loose wonder, tattoo cover / even
          her mother wouldn’t believe she just click left . no duck
          weed sucked shell.             
                                                                     Hard to fold sheet
          cleaners of company stain come after you like issue arrive
          seagull on train platform . you might do well to practice
          not withstanding the tree bird powerline pivot.

                                                                              At some front
          desk point the act resets her form address : short Show
          More cuts ? the bend overtures of wealth white glass
          milking | tail light !the fuck you snatching at?  deer skip
          away.

                                                                   Park way back siding head
          lean marks you . off what purpose depends who’s paying
          attention; or sends a scootering house delivery ~ about this
          Japanese haunt design by one M. Aurelius Biswas.
                                    Nah, the bells don’t ring . plus Satira's ankles
          might jewel up star spangling | they roll you only you
          now.
                                                                                Hold on, door
          opening ? es muy diferente / off the knob the syllables air
          lift . hearts stop here to hungers sift / time gem precious
          haggle.
                                                                      – W.W.

            

         

           

       

         

            MARA

            *Had it not been for her innate (she thinks) flair
            For awareness of her soul as a gold bowl
            Drained of all its memories of former lives
         (So that it might not be terrified by the prospect
            Of one more petrified-physical lifetime)
            And of her mind as a metal-plate hammered
            And etched with words and other labels of doubt –

              Had it not been for such early self-versions,
            Would she have had the detachment she needed
            To survive the pain of her parents passing
         On to her the cross of their own childhood’s cruelties?,
           Hoping she might help them bear the choked panic
           Which its crucifictions had spawned within them,
           Helplessness with no naming voice for itself.

            (from “Charon’s Anchors” by Brian Chan)