3 Poems from The Somnambulist

Like any good hustler he knew
 
how to lean and lean in like a man
 
once I caught him falling back

 

 

had he relapsed he had I grasped
 
the last sparks of his centerfold smile
 
something abstract in me cracks

 

 

shapeless mass a buffalo lands
 
like something heavy very fast off-
 
black in the darkness a figure: Dad

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

From a notebook, undated:

 

 

 

Accident, 1963: art’s not so abstract after all.

 

 

 

If I look at art, it’s because it helps me imagine you
 
free. Unchained, torn. A little like a Rauschenberg.

 

 

Who knew inside any accident is a poem: You can watch
 
in slow-motion the stone cracking, the syllables breaking.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Forgive me, Father for I have sinned
 
It’s been six, no, nine, no nevermind
 
I don’t remember my last confession
 
I have a recurring dream

 

 

where Willie’s smell
 
like battered cocoa leaves
 

courses through

 
my resurrected adult body

 

 

The priest replies,
 
“But child, what kind of melancholic
 
Catholicism is this?”
 
I forgive the priest, but I don’t forgive Willie
 
not for his trespasses, his coming-and-going

 

 

as he pleases from places
 
nobody gets to come back

 

 

 

 

Front page image by Jessica Ann.

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