Author Archives: Zak

a thin skin
of ice, in the shallow
part of the harbor.

and all of my
black tattoos
always turn blue

days before
my birthday my only
nephew was born.
days after
my birthday my only
father died.

pull the chair
out for your
self.
lift yesterday’s
news.
their stool
chatter-scrapes a
cross the floor.

the plastic
zipper inevitably
breaks. a few
months, maybe, maybe
you’ll get a few
months.

people working very
hard at being
people. people
going to
the ocean to pull things
out of the ocean
to turn into
people. people

the stove lights right
up. blue flame
jumping against dull
silver. you have
fuel for the stove.

performative removal of
insects, without
killing. a show
of not killing.

i caught eight
fish in two
days. that’s
about three
hundred dollars.

you thought you
might be able to
describe it, explain it.

still i
am simple;
fear, sadness,
anger.

as it is
normal,
that it is
insane,
is overlooked.

it is raining
hard in the city.
when
it isn’t it is
hotter.

unaccustomed, despite
the consistency. familiar
and, unaccustomed.

small-city coffee
shop; a body inhales
deeply, lustily,

fake brick
and faux stone.
a collection
of particulate hidden
in a narrowness between
walls. an unseen
irritant. a pox upon
lungs.

it is the culture of our family,
of our peer group,
to wear baggy sweatsuits
when we travel.

DRY FLOOR
on a five gallon plastic bucket,
affixed to the back of a truck.

i’ve chosen to
slide behind these
borders. blood
did not choose
me.

it is a make believe
normalcy. a fabricated
commonplace.
buy the coffee before
the work.
eight hours
normal.
ten hours
common.

stone still
heron silent
in shallows.
soft slate
surface dimpled
with rain.

they do not
say “i love
you”, instead
they say “love
to you”. a slight
variation; a massive
difference.

after unknown
lifetimes. in an instant.
that it’s a choice,
comes to form.

a dock with
your name. a
harbor. an
industrial park.
a building with your name.