Author Archives: Zak

attempt to find
reasons. persistence
of autonomic. tidal
muttering of need,
desire. fresh
from rest and
still, restless.

you’ve been
there for four
months, still, upon
entering, occasionally,
unaccounted, the bright
smell of paint.

supposed to go to
bike park? supposed
to walk up mountain?
supposed to revel in
unhindered sun?

“hey buddy”,
the dog does not
leap from the open
window and tear from
you your throat. you

you. you lift them
easily, carry them
easily.

lie on your floor
and listen
to the ingress
of water.

the plan is to
overeat.

you have not been
discovered. a new
neighborhood, a same
mountain.

i applied for and was
offered a job while still
early in my twenties.

the exhaust is made to emit a whistling sound. extra money is paid so that when the accelerator is pressed, the exhaust pipe whistles.

this Summer you don’t do anything. you don’t go anywhere. you don’t talk to anyone.

doesn’t seem like something
you’d want to do, yet, watch
it being done; paint
the grout white (mistake;
too white). build

you are considerably older than they are. your leg has begun, with startle, seemingly without any impetus, its perversion of form. your mind having begun this long ago.

“i’m not really doing any dairy alternatives. but i’m not drinking dairy.” “i’m doing laundry today, but just because i need underwear.”

the pile of yesterday’s at your feet grows by the day. every so often, you fold. you assess. you place some back in their drawer, back on their hangar.

your high school graduation in a muddy field in central new york. a slurry of dry metal chairs set up in lines and columns and rows so people in boots can sit in them and watch.

you know what day
you were said to have been
born, though
you do not
remember the birth.

you put yourself up against the sky. devastated at the falling moon. the fading moon. the moon, up there, and you, against it. you put yourself into the sky. bewitched at the rising moon. the floating moon. the moon, up there, and you, there with it.

you have a bike but it doesn’t have brakes so you use your foot you press your foot to the spinning rubber of the back wheel you press the rubber of your shoe to the rubber of the rear wheel to slow you to stop you when you ride your bike.

the bicycle leaning
against the porch,
appears again
out of snow’s ritual
disappearance.

we are all in
the house
together at the same
time. all of us
in the house
together. the house
has not yet been
built. the house is
still stone, un-dug.

the water is running down and the water is drying up. it is hot and the plants need. all the old nozzles have been rounded up and destroyed. you would have thought it was the guns that were being rounded up, the way people shrieked and sweated. the only nozzle you can now get has a special valve of some sort built in. tamper proof. a limiter. a way to keep in mind both the need and the drying up, the running down.

and look
how calm
it is now.
barely a rifle.
the scales
now laid flat.
the doorway
of the sun, flung
wide open. the doorway
of the moon, no
door at all.

i am hit
in the back of the head
as i walk.
i do not expect it
as i could not hear
what was coming up
behind me.

all of your friends are
balloons, bright
thin skin stretched
tight over emptiness.