I dont normally share work like this. But this is the only way I can cope with anything properly. Still a relatively early draft. Lifes just peachy, aint it. [August] is the Cruelest Month I. The entertainer returns to his magic lamp his prosthetic tits his English classroom his khaki jungle suit somewhere between Never Never and Ork he sits in the dark doing his best Popeye imitation without audience for the first time in decades three generations of children are reminded of their own mortality II. A young man walks into a convenience store leaves the store crosses the street is stopped by ten holes which leak eight feet of blood down the block for four hours before he is officially dead the flies have already begun to whisper Emmett Till? III. My aunt sits in a stone pot six feet under three sagging elms and a granite placeholder that grips last night’s rainwater in a series of beveled lines that seem so official the half-dead marigolds trace a K a 3 a --- that spans sixty-nine years but say nothing of the grey space that comes after
Posted on: Wed, 13 Aug 2014 02:31:40 +0000