Author Archives: Zak

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.

able to rub
vigorously
the scalp.
in public.
able to wind
the hair into
a thick rope.
able to hang
it over a shoulder.

human voice human
hands. hammers
strike strings. small
round black vessel for
sound. your mind

here we have
fresh avocados the whole
year round.
there are no seasons.

your road is so
rough you can’t help but
feel to blame. sorry,
you say you say
sorry. excuse me, you
say, sorry.

you sit yourself
down heavy like
hope. a cushion
to soften you.
there is no need
to associate these trees
with the bodies.

not for
exercise, but
for reverence.

a preference for
observation, not
participation;

in the morning
at the cafe,
with the retirees.
in the afternoon
at the theater,
with the empty seats.

if you’ve never
known this
suffocation, it
cannot be
explained to
you, you
cannot understand
it.

outside in the freeze
a glass pod
attached to
a mechanical arm
sprays a slurry of
juiced sugar beets,
leftover cheese brine,
and calcium chloride
onto the waiting wings of the airplane.

every use
the wrong use.
sometimes use
as whip.

i sat in
mediation
for twenty five years
and for
twenty five years
i suffered.

walking up
stairs, so, does any
one need any
thing? empty
windows surround
you. spaces
for panes; ghostly.

throw the stuff in the bag.
clothes.
jars and bags
of food.
containers of food.
pack up the bags.
take them from
and to.

i have made it in
ways that others will
not, cannot, do
not. others
make it in ways
that are not for me.