8.05 / May 2013

1. Father refuses to die. He’s always been an unconventional man, but this is getting out of hand. It is unseemly for a man his age. Makes him look like a louche ingrate.

After the feast, the water hadn’t touched us in ages, and we laid there with only our bodies left, the broken bread and soured grapes from a three dime dinner days ago, when we couldn’t believe the things we would say.

This piece is presented as a PDF in order to preserve the author’s intended formatting.

[wpaudio url=”/audio/8_5/Stelzer.mp3″ text=”listen to this poem” dl=”0″] In my bathroom the fan creates suction in the cupboards under the sink. I can tell because when I put my fingers on them I can feel the air blowing out. I take photos of myself in the mirror sometimes after sex to remember it.

(1) J loves whiskey whiskey hates J. M loves animals. They have to do with going out on a limb with acting nuts once in a while. Yelling their troubles to the bartender. ‘You’re drunk and repulsive.’ ‘Don’t change the subject.’ ‘I’m going home.’ ‘I’m coming with you.

1. Better That Way [wpaudio url=”/audio/8_5/SM1.mp3″ text=”listen to this poem” dl=”0″] 2. Everything Must Go [wpaudio url=”/audio/8_5/SM2.mp3″ text=”listen to this poem” dl=”0″] 3. Man With a Suitcase [wpaudio url=”/audio/8_5/SM3.mp3″ text=”listen to this poem” dl=”0″] 4. Monstertruck [wpaudio url=”/audio/8_5/SM4.mp3″ text=”listen to this poem” dl=”0″] 5. Nightriff [wpaudio url=”/audio/8_5/SM5.mp3″ text=”listen to this poem” dl=”0″] 6.

[wpaudio url=”/audio/8_5/King.mp3″ text=”listen to this poem” dl=”0″] I hate the sound of the human voice as it bursts from the radio at sunrise, when yellow holds its breath and pretends again to be orange. Daybreak: blood in the palm of morning, prison-soap pink spilling onto the horizon in the so-what of dawn.

[wpaudio url=”/audio/8_5/Kaufman.mp3″ text=”listen to this story” dl=”0″] Dad started small, jumping off the roof of the warehouse where he worked. The principal called Max’s name over the PA and there was Mom, order pad stuck in the pocket of her apron, gnawing her lip bloody.

One day the husband told the wife he didn’t love her anymore.  She cried and cried. “What did I do?” she said. “Nothing,” he said. “Is there someone else?” she said. “No,” he said. “Then why?” she said. “I don’t know,” he said.  “It just stopped.

Lake Country [wpaudio url=”/audio/8_5/Bruss1.mp3″ text=”listen to this poem” dl=”0″] My father married a native. She looks like clay. Like the land. She looks like a history he loves. ***** You’ve walked well ahead of me on the trail that ends at the highway, past the inlet flooded with spring.

The sinkhole gaped like a hollowed-out eye. Mudslides had coated it glossy. You could see it from the top of the hill if you squinted. Get down so I can see better, your sister said. We did so. She stood with one foot on each of our backs. Swallowed up whole.

Some things remain unclear. How, for example, he came to have the seeds. Or where, among so many security cameras, the garden could exist. “I had some help,” is all he’ll say. I know what this means. There, like everywhere else, he is the likeable one, the one with a joke or story.