Arsenic Lobster poetry journal Issue Forty-three
April 2017
from Leafmold
F. Daniel Rzicznek

Hey sawbones, welcome to the psychic expo. The false warmth of vodka, the bumper sticker, red text on white. Jesus is my boss, a man training his pointer at the edge of a swamp along the highway. As soon as you hit flint, signs of the north appear. After you die, you will meet God, the billboard proclaimed, without acknowledging the shadow below its surface: just what is God. There will always be another idea. Waiting to see a bear. Waiting to see a moose. Waiting to see another raven. Patience, above all other virtues, demands effort. Headlong into the sauna. Where you are is never what was there before you. Hit a dog and it will bite you for life. The ref wears blue gloves. He pushes or pulls the athletes apart, loose continents of muscle and spit. The ref’s bowtie lifts on a camera-sparked wind. Every piece is a practice for a sweeping, a cleansing down where the vein feeds the heart, supplicant root, fan bouncing on his heels in the stands. A cousin boxed. No blood, no knockout. Crow fanning at the road’s hem. Did not intend to finish all of it but did. Did not mean to weep. Imagine Miles Davis and Bob Dylan sparing. Tell me who will win.

About F. Daniel Rzicznek

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