you gave me a blue, part IIit broke. i never know what to do with a broken thing like when my vcr broke and i didn’t know what to do so i sold it to some chump who needed a vcr and felt bad i chumped him but it turned out he wanted a broken vcr so who’s the chump after all it’s only natural we should try to unload our shit on whoever is willing to be unloaded on and the time my monkey broke and i didn’t know what to do so i sold it to the cavalry who thought it was a weapon but how was i to know they needed a broken monkey or that monkeys can be fixed or that monkeys can be weaponized or that colonels could be promoted based on simian acquisition which reminds me of the other time when my thomas broke and i didn’t know what to do so i sold it to a clock mechanic who said he could repurpose it and use it for the betterment of everyone concerned but how the hell could i have known his purpose was malignant or that thomases were radioactive when broken at the circus if i’d known that i’d never’ve taken my thomas to a circus and never would’ve thrown it at the guy who was whipping the lion (how was i to know it was his job to whip a lion? who the hell would take a job involving whipping a lion? in the interview did they ask him, hey—have you ever whipped a lion? or maybe it’s just a question on the application: how many years of experience do you have whipping lions? if i had known it was an actual job i might’ve chosen another profession; i think i could’ve had a meaningful career as the guy who whips the lions) or how about that time my actual broke and i didn’t know what to do so i sold it to a dentist who said he would use it to fill his patients’ holes but i told him i didn’t want to know anything about his patients’ holes so he instead filled me in on all of his own holes and i told him i had had enough to think about my own holes and that’s when i realized i could’ve filled up my own holes with a monkey and vcr or maybe just a thomas—but no, my holes aren’t fillable is what the dentist told me so i went home and sank my teeth into the most recent yellow you gave me but when the blue you gave me broke i knew just what to do and i did it without hesitation—but now the yellow’s leaking i carved my name in her facethere's no precedent for this: once i carved it in my wrist it didn't take so I carved it in the bone that funny bone the one mom told us leave alone it gets its groove on where it aches it didn't take to bone or bladder nor fish nor flesh it didn't matter didn't take to brick or bread so i carved it in my boot but my boot was made of cow so it grazed as milk makes money then it flaked off foam and moo so i left it on the floor and reached out for the mutton much easier for the pairings then i dropped it behind the curtain where it's still but forever hidden once i carved it in my cousin he didn't like it as i thought he wouldn't and shame is such a mooted gesture i'm sure we'll come to it this future once we cut it in the cotton we shared it for a weekend twice once i caught a cunning huntress her sweet was resting on my jacket we wake wednesdays with ammonia scenting all our sweat and swelling but the carving that i've given now is washed out of the tincture and the turnout they were thwarting burns inside its crevice reaching out to grab my blunder gives a tug it makes a charm says she misses mississippi misses missing me that much says she lost so much passion when she played the virgin mom says she loses each day passing when she thinks about her dad she says three times she lost her cordial once to her brother it doesn't count once to me in the place last summer once to ariadne in a fountain in rome in 1979 in spring in a panic in the rain off the coast of Mactan on the Trinidadand we were talking about time, time and the passing of time, spacetime and space and time and you said time was a miracle, rising as its vapors rise out of the primordial ovum—juiceripe flow to medieval muck whence weaving wove and i said time is snuffed by the immemorial blender which is to say this plasma drift across milky night slipping away to frost lain low over crust and vermin blast of concrete, combs encountered in brothels incantations on the ear, elbow and thrifty throbs thick packed stacks of elevator music columbian arc mysterious mute staggering from anchor to topsail ~ Stag-Beetle: neither of you know nothing-- time is a treelimb, a trombone, a collarbone and clambake; a porchlight on your grandmas’ landing—a plastic cup floating in an inflatable cocoon; native hands —and native spears—sunbrown and naked as if a movement of the blade as swift as this kampilan swashbuckles bearing the weight of centuries couple questions theometryenough enough this fragile thing stuff & thought all bloody was what we thought & still think now thought not & water crashing basin draining slow slow cracks & crowns for queens deposed crucified objects as oral story story simple ample lately loosely looking genesis pricked by zealotry she rides red back & forth & forth & forth till she comes all glory wads upon her back & throat this is not life i'm living not the street i've been paving make the bridge i go to angels make a road i bridge by tremors hopeful still says he to she is not like this she says & he all sweaty was where he stood on dropdrip on her him all fluid dropdrop to her him was flowing dripdrip from her all was on him home was culling froth from icetouch it's all we was says he at her we're all what what says her for him let's go says she says her to that ok he says by her for her undo they try though they all wet all drowned in body fully fully come against holy wholly we say i now winebread we am & there’s a moment when language and light and liquor converge in the bowery poetry club on a cold spring day shadows cross across the crawl space waiting while a woman speaks a solid sings a block of thunder a dead leaf being-- when cockroaches come crawling out of crevice when termites finish chewing my worndown shoes) cosmic conundrum & the next day your bus stops & the next bus starts & all your points of reference are in motion all at once it rené descartes you-- you who have no thoughts to am you with wetter worndown shoes * * * * * l’envoi drew barrymore lights the candle between us-- i want to stand on the edge of mauna kea when goddess wakes Ed Go’s writing has appeared in multiple print and online journals, and his chapbook Deleted Scenes from the Autobiography of Ed Go as told by Napoleon Id is available from Other Rooms Press. Find him online at edgosblog.wordpress.com
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