Something So Perfect
He's too young to remember that yellow and red box in the cupboard -that foil bag never folded over -that dark opening, the shape of a dried leaf she reached for it on summer nights when the whiffle ball or the badminton birdy lost its glow when the green beans were turned off with a click and the fried chicken laid resting on a brown paper bag. with such sentiment do I see back with clear and muddled head that dented wire mesh strainer and the amber liquid carrying crushed leaves halfway through it and then at some point the ritual ended, disappeared, as keys seldom used or titles to old cars come up missing and nobody knows when or how they are lost I remember giant 3 liter bottles of Dr Pepper going flat on the kitchen table and 25 cent cans of Coca Cola stacked on the washer and now, unopened bottles of organic tea expire under the counter next to the cat food and the zip lock bags
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C.L.
I am a member, he said, of the sex with myself in the back of a greyhound club without pause for measure of our response sly, as Amy releasing a fly from the end of her dangling arm smiling from ear to ear he glowed in cheeky satisfaction as she left it spinning on the tile floor I Could Have Been You I could have been you Bregsosenar, hat maker bourgeois milliner chic dandy extraordinaire French Victorian father of three Sunday mass, absinthe tea I could have been you Bergonessar, communard and mail carrier man of letters, visionary and scribbler you were Ozwiena's messenger baring latest witness I could have been you Chez Bassorgener, friend and corrupt companion caught between L'evenement and the points of seamstress shears dulled by distant gaze, startled, "alas!" Or you young Brasosenger dauber, passionate rebel to outlive us all bathed in your glow, we relent our fall, your spring |
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August 2016
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