from I’m Sorry but None of This Is My Fault

*
The statue of the rooster has a purpose. The flooded subway platform has 
a purpose. A great force gathers the poppies and assembles them into a 
carpet draped between the downtown buildings, shimmering like too 
near stars. A wild hog terrorizes the wealthy. Green fruits go nuts when 
we’re not around. On my phone I find a picture of my more carefree self, 
strutting in the daylight, and attempt to summon his presence. Desire 
fires up the Ouija board of yesteryear. I remove my cap and insert my 
fingers into the earth, wet with envy. Harm cannot befall a prince in 
waiting. Peaches outlast the interim president. I would like to shimmer 
the way a guitar chord shimmers, or to touch the spine of a book in such a 
manner that unlocks a secret door. Ditch weed has a purpose. Stockpiling 
weapons has a purpose. Poetry lingers and dies like a perennial, to return 
in spring. I’ve never sunk into the illustrious waters of ascension or seen 
the sullen face of someone I love softly covered with a sheet. Insects 
taunt me from their hovels. Borax makes a promise. I aspire to be a 
generalist’s generalist, or to transcend the realm of nouns. Gunshots echo 
through the brain fog. A game show teeters on the brink. A wounded 
dove has a purpose. The decline of the middle class has a purpose. A 
mantra transforms into an elixir. A Starbucks cup assumes the mantle 
of the immortal. I lie back in the tub and set my mind to spin, drawing 
up an image, soft like currency is. Breasts populate the province. A telex 
readies itself in the chamber. I lie back in the tub and raise my asshole 
to the gods in invitation of their hatred. A bedpan crumbles beneath the 
apostle. Television has a purpose. A historic oil spill has a purpose. My 
body maintains the unspoken boundary between my self and all that’s 
moving, and for this I love and fear it, in equal measure, but never at the 
same time. Flies proffer their tonic. A shout travels up through the snow. 
You crave harp stars, orc stars, battle stars, bison stars, leery stars, juiced 
stars, pilot stars, and rum stars. You crave mountain toast, grubby toast, 
brave toast, jelly toast, coastal toast, Flemish toast, saggy toast, and felon 
toast. Terror bucks like a stump grinder. A jacaranda quiets the foal. I 
haul ass to the party. I haul ass to the yoga class. I retrieve my scrotum 
from the overhead compartment and complete the deboarding process. 
Certain fish can see the face of God. Pleurisy has a purpose. A dank moon 
has a purpose. The mine shaft took us in like a mother. The record spins 
like a centrifuge. I intend to stay rooted in my not-understanding, or to 
let the grace of the Lord fall upon my house and reduce it to cinders. 
Concrete tends towards quietism. Glass glitters in the rotten light. Here 
is what happened when we read our tarot: you drew the county line, the 
pilgrim’s ace, the brazen finger, the stately cod, the vixen with an AR, 
the deserving nipples, the eclipsing rain. I drew the mythic circle, the 
lips of plenty, the haunted elector, the orphic plurals, the eyeless sow, 
the aspen’s grave, the ballast of the sun. The fall of labor has a purpose. 
Bounty hunting has a purpose. I crave a particular piece of property. I 
crave the endless names of woods.

Read more from Issue 21.2.