Volume 8 Issue 3


light ended            between two oak trunks     a breath caught
sharply drawn        because I can’t      speak can’t say          the bird
over there              with beak like knife like     tongue is
broken cannot       fly I call        out in song               and blade
I resent the ground          this bird         this one        is you and   your arms are
bent               the wrong way    and I did that            to you and you
are lying on your back       and the city sinks   like shoulders under water
under the faucet   and can the heat        of you undo            the knots in my back
in my shoulders    I am twisted I              am bent     the wrong way and
the night is   full of hands        clasped palm             to palm holding
the light        of eyes of flight  of lampposts              holding on because
I do not want           to fly anymore     to release to             open my fingers
            to end

Day One: Reflections from Cell #4505

And the light shone in through the light, through the negative, and the sprockets could not keep pace. They tore themselves in all directions, limbs of suicidal silver nitrate turning them- selves into whispers of reflective hair bounding itself into ropes and cords, in chains, that hair. And from the acid it emerged, not revealed, but completely blank, so that not only was the current picture removed, but all traces within the mind of the event, of the day, of the moment, obliterated. It was a snake, and eventually it tore itself free from the bath of my own self resignation, my own complacency with the past, and began to crawl forward. Image after image, no longer images, but notes of condemnation branded in by the reflective light of Mars. I slowly crept backwards, but the film, the light and light, kept moving forward, this time, with almost military skill and precision. I grabbed it by the throat, and the blood rushed.