Who Gazes at the Stars Raises God from His Shoulders
A woman lives under the sidewalk in front of the driveway. She is not as flat as you might expect. Right now we’re nearly in love.
Listen, Scooter, I’m not afraid of death and I know too much. I can appreciate
things. A delicious hairy declivity. An unintimidated absurdity. A rehabilitation program
of divinatory excess. A dandified reluctance to fully engage. A delirious snotpopping
delight of proliferations. I can feel forbidden pleasures questioning the monument I carry for a soul. It hurts and it’s not mistaken to love. I know that much.
My people gathered and my people listened. Their legends were being discussed
without benefit of authority.
Her hands grasped like the feet of birds. She clutched the bone-fort of her own
recumbent body. She remembered a time of glaciers and hunger.
Listen, Scooter, I know what you’re thinking. You’re wrong. The abyss which is
falling through us, the ancient blue sky, they are not clues to the escape but props for the inner eyes, focused on the approaching distance.
First, the darkness must grow. Then the river at the stone’s door has something
cold to say. The smoke represented how much desire was escaping, like some mystical
cloud talking in its sleep, like every day you’re alive. A mouthful of moonlight from the
The cure is incomplete, as all recoveries from life must be.
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.