Issue |
 |
Sept |
|
a poem by Justin Reynolds (1 of 2)
reunited with the oracle
my desk drawer
is cluttered
with failed endeavors;
i'd been out of the game
for awhile.
the drone of a needs-to-be-replaced
air-conditioning unit
hanging out my
needs-to-be-painted window
becomes hypnotic most nights
& i'm in a trance,
somehow it's already july,
somehow these days pass so quickly,
somehow i am sitting here
writing checks
to people
i've never met
who say
they'll
continue
to provide me
with services
i'm conditioned
to think
i need,
even
as
i
keep
living
hand
to
fucking
mouth.
gone are those days,
those evil days,
days of undefeated imagination,
long summer nights
wholly consumed
in
contemplation without constraint;
we were just so naive then,
almost like the way
the world tickles your feet
& you giggle, but
know
it is all just foreplay:
you must
make sure
you rest up well--you'll spend
the next seventy years
on all fours.
somehow
i've been
reunited
with the oracle
& somehow
think it's okay
to start crawling.
is cluttered
with failed endeavors;
i'd been out of the game
for awhile.
air-conditioning unit
hanging out my
needs-to-be-painted window
becomes hypnotic most nights
& i'm in a trance,
somehow it's already july,
somehow these days pass so quickly,
somehow i am sitting here
writing checks
to people
i've never met
who say
they'll
continue
to provide me
with services
i'm conditioned
to think
i need,
even
as
i
keep
living
hand
to
fucking
mouth.
those evil days,
days of undefeated imagination,
long summer nights
wholly consumed
in
contemplation without constraint;
we were just so naive then,
almost like the way
the world tickles your feet
& you giggle, but
it is all just foreplay:
you must
make sure
you rest up well--you'll spend
the next seventy years
on all fours.
i've been
reunited
with the oracle
& somehow
think it's okay
to start crawling.