By Travis Catsull
“He remembers the box, made of oak,
With the lock, very secret and odd,
And spreads through a floor the stroke
Of his feet in the iron bond.” –Anna Akhmatova
it got cold
as i waited for the cab
swaying towards the computer
since my feet are pot roasts
sliding across a kitchen floor
as i misread a stapler
for a pack of cigarettes
and lock into midnite
alone
nitemares of brush and pail
i punched and punched
as they grafted skin
from behind my ear
nitemares of whole poem and flying lozenges
while i finally pet krisna’s horse
i stain the shaky church pew
dried blood brown
and find some rechargeable batteries
in a porch boot
cleaning my nails
with the edge of a christmas card
the bayou floods blemished fence
for in the living room a fish slept
nitemares of passing dolorous cloud; vice of youth:
often i will wait for you to speak
while i shudder in a time frame
and move like this
from monday to movie theater
spend the rest of my night in a dune buggy
designed by a demi-god
who lives behind the creek
the strawberry seeds hum
from the burdened guest
to the autumn home of an echo
i take off my shirt and toss it on the floor
so soon
a dog comes to lay on it
my desk chair squeaks
as though a song about arizona
is being written in the next room
yes, i can apologize
like low hung water bags
like any venus / jupiter
glistening in a hand unheld, see
i’ve got this new contentment
that won’t attract flies
or expect some moment of pure awareness
eventually
i hope you gloss over
this
like the prayer of someone sleeping
blowing nite past their many legs
so i guess i
should just start a new sentence
in the calm eye of a window
and shiver behind credit card alley
for the latest “us”
i lock our lives in a travel trailer
and disappoint myself
each month
as love is just
some inventive guilt
that lasts
longer than lightening
i guess i just
showed up to apologize tonite
say i’m sorry
for december
maybe
the rest of your life
Clutching at Straws 