That’s Just the Way I Stop Talking
A swagger of a song lisping from the leak of his throat, a rasp of weather like
No such action, no razor of clever banter before the misplaced bump and grind.
And the baby clapped happily for the stuffed toy, already in a better world.
Then the earth beneath his mother’s lung garden fell, cigarette smoke
commandeering the vital organs.
I hope I have not shamed you. I hope I have not disguised the fears. Isn’t it lovely
the way the ugliest ones free us? A beautiful rat of a peach dripping with wounds and
I had to let out a little of the certainty. Otherwise it just hurts. Father wouldn’t
approve. The careful little shit.
So hello hello from the useless shoes and the closets and the lost destinations in the
elders’ paws, trailing smoke across the escaping boat that rocks on the carnal waves like
jellyroll, hawking up expectations with a pretty little lilt and tussle of petticoats dipping
decorously towards the invisible shoelace anthems of the departing river.
Male child motherless, I am not the name of anyone or anything that claims me by
proliferation, or by falsifying my passport so that I am forced to participate freely. It only
proves me wrong again.
I am named: Not This.
Or I am named: This.
A movement between.
Rich Ives is the author of Tunneling to the Moon: A Psychological Gardener’s Book of Days currently being published in serial @ Silenced Press everyday in 2014 and forthcoming in paperback. Begin from the beginning, catch up, read daily. Just refer to the Burrow Guide.