|"Tell us about your wishlist." This is my wishlist. I wish for things on this list.|
luckless I left youLuckless I left you, openingluckless I left you by mackwrites
and closing. Opening, empty
hands. A stain spreading out
from your palm, a tacky feeling
in your fingers; a touch
you can't take back.
It's January and the shudder
of warm breath hangs in the
frozen air, sways as I pass,
leans in to whisper things
and dissipates before telling me.
In my room at the end of the world
I feel the beats between things like
a thumb and a smartphone. I am
moments between eyelashes
and sodium, hydrogen, and oxygen.
Water rushes through a pipe
and I put my head against it to listen.
A cat rolls on the carpet in
the sun spot, stretching, furry.
The earth turns under the guise
of moving us, and I wonder where
we will end up when it is done.
ice cream, 12/10/13perhaps this is not the best wayice cream, 12/10/13 by mackwrites
to put it, but you're like ice cream
dripping through my hands. tacky,
clinging like sentiment,
sweet against my skin even
when the cone is gone.
the stunning and the suddenif you've never been hit bythe stunning and the sudden by mackwrites
an emotional freight train
Well, you just haven't really
no, but the thing is
all the trappings and all the
stars aligned and thinking you
know what you really want--
life leaves land mines everywhere;
in piles of leaves, in the upper lip
of a wine glass, in bent photographs,
in digital files you can't bring yourself
so when the train comes
shaking the earth, making dirt and stones
shudder and leap off the glistening
steel tracks, there is no warning horn.
blue-greenthe wave rose in a great swellblue-green by mackwrites
and hung, utterly exposed, the
underbelly of things kept close
to the chest, as I tipped back and
looked at the magnified blur, settling,
settling, settling, sand and atlantic
mingling in a clear sandwich bag,
a miniature opus, rolling out,
unfurling the way trumpets do.
he fought down the feeling that
had sunk into his flesh, had sunk
right through bravery, trembling, and
granite, sunk because it was an anchor
and dug in because that's what anchors do.
there's nothing quite like the dark
quiver of november, the molting of
color, the tacky, corpse-sky, the
grinding of the wind against bone, burning
red-blue on the mouth, the fumble against
other bodies, the knuckle rattle.
"It's been years since I
thought of that," she said, with
a linger long enough to measure
a seashell, ragged edged from
the whipping, hollowed out.
telephone lines connecting
two telephone sets, with two hands
pressed against two cold plastic tubes pressed;
taut strings running from hea
Tiresias UnboundI. The Beginning
My life - such as it was at the time, nothing more than a polliwog in my mother's belly began one warm summer night when the earth's shadow momentarily obscured an overripe harvest moon.
My mother was nineteen at the time, a tiny creature with silver eyes and sun-gold hair that ran to her waist like unfurled skeins of silk. On the night in question, however, it was bound and tucked beneath a little red cap, and my mother was not my mother, but a young girl playing dress-up as a boy in order to deal cards to tourists. Still, this had not prevented her from being lured into a nearby gondola in order to talk more to the beautiful young man who had caught her fancy at the roulette table.
I discovered some time later that he was actually younger than my mother, but she never supposed that at the time. He was taller than her by nearly a foot, and had a self-assurance few seventeen-year-olds possess, though he was no more experienced. Nevertheless,