i worked in a wine shop with an Italian man who would say with a shrug, “for me, it is good”

make it

i caveman built
a wooden box
to house collected
wine. alone
on a Thanksgiving
afternoon and
with thanks,
i opened bottle
after bottle,
the giddiness of which
brought me to
the wooden box,
square hands and
small round nails,
gathered dust
and vacancy,
as the wine i
continued to ingest
grew in bottle size
and plummeted
in price.

make it
maybe more
will find it

a woman tells
me of her
abandonment, so
of course i respond
with Bushwick Bill
quotes, a diminutive
and dead
rapper. “should i
live in reality, or
live in the
television?” does this
not make perfect
sense? have i not said
the exact right thing,
mood of loss turned
like smooth wood,
to mood of

making it
making it

that stretch of sidewalk
precarious in its
proximity to street.
even the street
shudders in uncertainty,
perched right there
on the water.
a street will plunge
into water, well
sure, and
water is in no rush
regardless of its tidings,
to eat the foolish
solidity of street.
and this
stretch of sidewalk,
the berry bushes grow
so exuberantly, pushing
in from one side, and
on the other, that
trembling streak of street,
with its forklifts and
over-stuffed men
desperate to be seen
in their camouflage and
mountainous tumor
trucks. and here
comes a man
walking towards me
and we haven’t enough
room on this side to
walk! and we are both
men, big and strong and
without fear, as men
are meant to be.
yet i very nearly leap
from the cliff of this
walk and into the street,
and he presses himself
like a leaf in a
warm thick book
into the berry bushes,
all so we can pass
without ever having to
place our bodies near

sorrowful joy,

we are a species
of mimics, so
i listen to music
that is just barely

Published by Zak

an intertidal island in an ocean of impermanence.

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