Postscript from the Editor
Get me on the right page.
Take back my library card.
Turn down the radio.
Watch out for that glass.
Let me back into your world
With the roadblocks and diseases.
Let me see your hands,
Palms up, laces back.
Tell me the holler for the grandpas and ladies
Living in the restaurant, turning up the volume,
Passing the hat around, upside down…
Like a train in the station waiting for a wreck.
Tell all your friends the flag is inverted:
We never came back from the war.
Our fathers are simmering –
The electricity’s been turned off.
The windows are open:
Don’t take the jump.
Hand me that pillow;
I need some rest of my own.
We need to huddle,
Did I say cuddle?
Will you hold my hand
While I hold your nose?
Will you take out the memory we left in the hall?
Will you ring the bell, trace the pattern, call it art –
Call it a vacation from it all.
The tuna melt, that’s getting cold,
My imagination’s getting hot
In the mountain east of the Black Sea.
I have visions of numbers copulating in the sink.
The ticket’s been punched, the web is on fire,
The captain is bordering your ship.
We’ve been pirates so long I forgot we can’t get back.
It’s all for land lovers, anyway, tall waitresses,
Moustaches on Saturdays, bath tubs filled with ink…
Thought police, extraction, capital on the run,
Analysis on the staircase…
Retribution without recall.
If you give me the tune, I’ll let you sit with the dog
Who thinks the only way to meditate is to learn how to stay,
But we seem to be stranded
In a land so familiar it breaks up like wafers and
Matches on a tray. Take a long breath,
Winter ain’t gone yet.