Which Crime?


They know who did it. They know when.
You find a cool black sack of delight strapped to your first night. You know she
released you. You know the reasons are beyond her and you still want to confess.
“A runny-assed snicker of a woman,” the man at the club had said. And then he
scratched at the rooster-red welt on his nose. “Sorter disCUSSin’ init?” He paused for
effect. The effect was not the one he expected.

“My wrists are prescribed,” means, “I’ve heard the knife-like rumours,” and, “The
calcium flute,” means, “The pulse of myself is on her fingers.”
“Scrub trees litter the hillside,” means, “I place my erection in the sleeve of my trousers.”

But no picture of this world would be complete if we did not step back and take a
closer look at our place in it. I have discovered that the whispering behind the throat of a
gnat never falters because night doesn’t fall, it rises. It enters from the back side.

It’s there because I want to tell you what I saw, which is not the same thing at all.

If God leaves evidence, does that make him an animal? For some reasons I don’t
understand, this makes me happy.

. . . and if in love we find a second death beyond the little one of orgasm, there
remains only one address.
The absence anticipated intensifies. We know this, but have we found the absence
that erases the subjective, even if the bodies remain . . .

. . . and then we go and find getting there from the arrival one long retreat, the birth
of our death inside that passing, which held all the rewards we found escaping . . .

I learned who I was during the gentle part of the interrogation. I’d been daisied
over the lift and curve and the best of it is saying no while the foreign sparrow of trust
(grown comfortable beneath the eaves, where infinity begins) darts my return with falling
swoops and cuffs.

I’m so crowded I’m sleeping between me. To others, I’ve been condescended.

I can no longer give myself, my hopeless humplebus of comforting fears better
roasted and brushed wide of the day before thought winks out into limpid have-tos of not,
its yellow butler of sweetmeat curled homewards.

Should this then in my milk-damp paws await, a cabbage cart of latency
reservations ulcered out of duty, I might saturate and remark upon the remarks allowed been there and I’ve turned the singulars to plurals in the instance. (As your thought
undresses, you must confess your intentions for its future, hold it apart as if you had no
controllable claim to how it might respond to you, what with the tension and the carping.
You have to give it back and you have to take it away, all in a single motion filled with

Because I don’t know what I’m talking about, I might be telling the truth.

And they know who did it.

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.