Poem April 3

The language you are now reading

will be born tomorrow morning

when the sun that resides in each 

one of us turns back into music.

You and I will be in transit, as usual, 

rolling along the new roads, 

practicing our stories in case

we’re asked about our adversaries.

The language? Rinse your hands

in its shapes, lift up your eyes,

accept its disobedience and its

habit of separating the human body 

from the lilacs it desires. And of burning 

any habit into the present moment.

 

—James Cushing

 

 

Do It Again

A blissful grind along a powdery track,

a delivery system into a black hole.

The destination lies straight ahead, wrapped 

in warped warmth, outweighing desire 

and assuming control. This sinister sweetness 

nullifies the usual consolations and makes light 

of agency, so that you’ll go to any length 

to make weakness a strength; and when life 

becomes too stark again, and you want 

to turn the lights down low again, 

you’ll always go that extra mile 

to let your willpower crumble 

into a flaky white pile.

 

—John Tottenham