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5 months ago

Bourge-wise Cat

My Urban Knot Breaks

My Urban Knot Breaks Your Pattern Night makes an illegal left in this petroleum-based dream. Whose idea was it to opt for an open-air market? When did you lose the remote control? Boston’s the last time you’ll set my hair on fire. Night flaming Lucifer, my opposite times 7, your heartless sciences and useless sacrificial parades leave me nothing but an emptyshelled Brazil nut. Give me back my credit cards or I’ll sue you this time—I swear it. Boston’s the last time you’ll set my hair on fire. My animal heart hums in its sky cup. The stars siphon glitter into the cup. Planets fill the cup with planets. Tambourine shaker on this karmic goaround, I’ll stalk you crazy until I get my juicer back. Boston’s the last time you’ll set my hair on fire. My floating junkie in outer space is now my former floating junkie from a constellation I’ll tear into seven irregular pieces. Strange chamber of memories now, I’ll never dust that chamber of horrors you call an apartment again. Ever. Boston’s the last time you’ll set my hair on fire. Now my days are drunk in the kernel of the twelve dreams. My night’s a free-falling wand, a basin of velvet, a kleptomaniac’s dream flavor. The scar over my left eye is healing nicely, but you still owe me for the emergency room. Boston’s the last time you’ll set my hair on fire. #

TWO POEMS By WILLIAM DORESKI Battery Acid Battery acid comes in a box. Weak sulfuric solution, bitter on the tongue but otherwise palatable enough. I titer a quart into the punch. The wedding guests smile when they taste it. Mixes well with the liquor, lemons, grapefruit, and lime. I learned to swim in an acidic little pond on the Canadian border. Water so clear it made air look like porridge. Sizzling as I swam, I lost most of my flesh and learned to take pride in my bones. Exposed to the air after a mile or two in the harsh clean atmosphere, I re-fleshed myself as if donning ordinary clothes. That was the life. Now having slightly poisoned a hundred cheerful guests, I speechify and confess. Their applause seems more sincere than ever. For anyone who doubts, first aid remains an option. The bride kisses me in rainbow hues. The groom also kisses me, his lips as tough as condoms. The ugly smell of acid hovers, but like a bird of prey disdains to alight. I’ll take the rest of the punch home and use it to activate a battery left unused in a cupboard for many years. When it’s charged, I’ll shock myself as frankly as I dare, and that will be adequate apology. An Opera About Orpheus The creep and crawl of whispers on the breezeway. Opera on the radio. Something about “crown and charcoal burner,” but perhaps that’s a bad translation of the Italian. Or is it German? As I attempt to make out the words, the propane heater utters gusts of carbon dioxide. Time for my volunteer work at the hospital. Every evening I wheel patients up to the roof to enjoy the stars. Soon I have a dozen stargazers chatting about their favorite surgeries. They know all the medical terms, and relish pronouncing them with edged consonants and greasy vowels. From here the snow atop neighboring mountains seems illuminated or even illuminating. When you arrive at the hospital to help with these astronomically inclined patients you wheel them off the roof to crash in the parking lot three floors below. The bent and broken wheelchairs glitter in the lamplight. No one hurt, at least not hurt as much as our local surgical team has hurt them. Let’s go home and listen to more opera. I hope there’s one about Orpheus. I feel like a detached head still singing. I don’t miss my body at all.

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