Altogether we were / uncountable, and another / of us we abandoned / at the shore.
White emerges when all wavelengths of light reflect off an object with equal intensity, much like how white noise distributes its amplitude across its entire frequency range. Examples abound: running water, the whir of a fan, the hum of a vacuum.
And I realize that layered in pasta and ham, spinach and oats, maybe the food question is really a language of love, a question of intimacy — because what’s closer to a person than the food they eat?
In his memoir 1967: How I Got There and Why I Never Left, Robyn Hitchcock’s assembled a lovely, evocative, characteristically quirky portal back to that heady time.
Sweet teenage goths, come back / from evening’s municipal cemeteries / and haunt the living for a minute.
The kind of man Cathy imagined would pursue an eleven-year-old should be tall and fit. He ought to wear fitted washed jeans, his button-up sleeves rolled loosely. His fingers should be stacked with rings, and a tattoo should climb the side of his neck, his forearm or bicep. But the man who’d sought out Cathy was short and stocky. His pasty skin had a sheen that made it look extra malleable, like putty.
Skies have moods. We gave these / to them. Named the rivers. Imagine that.
An old man will watch us, openly / stare, two boys in a Nevada diner / leaning towards each other, a touch / too close.
I told myself it wasn’t my responsibility. I told myself it wasn’t my fault, and grabbed my flannel off the back of the chair, the bag of scripts off the sink. I found my jeans at the foot of the bed, my shoes, my cigarettes, and I walked out into the cold.
In a third smoke session of the night sort of way I ask him / what’s the worst thing he’s ever done. He searches me for the / fish hook, says he was unfaithful-a few times-to the first girl he / loved.
Any moment the doctor / will knock—the wait suspenseful, caught / breath before a jump scare.
Enter: The Clown.
Suddenly, the building’s main door banged open. Something heavy was being lugged up the stairs. Kevin slid behind me and dragged open the apartment door.
"Once it's official, start packing. Submit two copies of your letter of resignation. One goes to your parents, for their records."
