A house is not a terrapin
or a sailboat
or a maelstrom
The sunstorm that swindles
sycamore green embossed on the heart
like sequins or worlds
No (New) Man’s Land
a life in fluid drawn,
scar tissue, muscle yielding.
New man by
needle-born in flush
of mid-life puberty,
years of life.
Burying facts that
fail to fit.
it’s dark inside
which suits me
it hides my imperfections
the guilt upon my skin
the dread in my eyes
as they size me up
You enter her through a tall, narrow doorway. This is impossible without an invitation. A hallway decorated
with red wallpaper welcomes you. In darker red: stems, leaves, stamens, petals. Voluptuous, monstrous
roses. You can hear a soprano singing upstairs. Once inside, you are free to roam at will.
sudden the homecoming
coyotes have learned to build traps
made of endings from the center of the earth
dressed as wolves they give them
to their loves who live in houses
with pink curtains and weather
dictionaries and streaming services
Its All Greek to me
For B. D. M.
“The embrace of men”
and you pirouette
behind the cash register
a new found bond at work
Elephant Slide in the Exclusion Zone
After David McMillan’s photograph, Pripyat, Ukraine, October 2002.
can sometimes mean to think
of them as a child: a wisped head
turned in a wheaten basket. Soft fists.
A bumblebee in a foxglove flower.
Men awe, at that heathen spindle,
to see any machine’s ode.
I generate codes,
many ease, to lend pins heat;
heat that we name, decode….
Instructions for the PERFECT LieContinue reading “Two Sets of Instructions by Elancharan Gunasekaran”
The Taste of Rage
Laden with hungry fingers and a thirst
for Jim Beam, you skulk through
murky nightclubs looking for a dimly lit
blonde to awaken in the middle of the night.
You eat up the thrill of drunken sex and
fuck in hotel rooms paid for in cash,
twisting beneath sheets stained with indiscretion.
Their child is doing voices
‘All of us have a primitive prompter or commentator within, who from earliest years has been advising us, telling us what the real world is’ – Saul Bellow.
It is hot. Outside on the landing his parents
are in readiness, hushed for the show.
Hear him now, stirring.
The whiteness of his mind, at peace, a planet,
is studio enough
where, ice-still in echoes like a deepfreeze mariner,
he inhales to begin.
To preacher-perfect O’s mimicking the next doors.
And now the imperatives to weepy Olive Oyl,
hot talk, transmissions, dogfights and now,
waspish, with accent, lisping Daffy Duck,
scolding her charges in squeaky ’78.