24 July 2019

it’s not the loudness 

that scares me or even

the feeling of metal

in hand--

this imagination is active

enough to put the missing

pieces together

even if they don’t fit the

way they’re supposed to.

but wednesday night has 

me thinking about the 

aftermath and it’s the 

slipping away part that 

really does me in,

does me in 

in ways i can’t

fully grasp,

and it’s the blood that gets

me too but it doesn’t always

have to be like that but the 

slipping slipping slipping

away part does that ever

play out any differently?

i don’t want to slip i want

to stay i want to stick but

don’t know how. it’s the 

non-remembering that 

wrecks me.

Reviews

[The Twin Arenas]

Jeez, you still write here? I'm glad of it. The quill dried up for years and years but now I'm starting to notice the leaves again. It's good you're still around. Great writer.

On vacation this year, I missed an exit and wound up in the parking lot of the Brooks Slaughterhouse, watching all the Somalians who work there get picked up or dropped off. It must do a number on your head, seeing the word Slaughter like that, every day. This piece reminded me of missing that exit, and moving just a little past where I'd intended to go.