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.
0 Comments