|Arsenic Lobster poetry journal||
We play French Hollywood on the beach and Christ is risen. The two of them
are looking serious, squinting between the sun, you are drinking with many
words you want to say, it shovels at your brow the specific instructions on how to
complete the task at hand, the picture sees more than we had wanted, and I
refer instead to forgetting into the blue sky, I think nothing is wrong.
Meanwhile, in the persistence of having nothing to say, parading
in the meadows and sounding all the trumpets - the final fatal insistence of being,
how this is the light, how this is really being what it is and how I say it is
And then as usual I play the lottery pick four I thought I might be able to pay
for all the things I have taken and to take care of the strange, acute pains I
experience to my right center, just to the right of my left breast. I thought
the kind of miracle of minute chance might brighten everyone’s spirits. If I
were gone by then it would be nice if they wouldn’t take all your money back
too if there was some money to take care of it when it happens
Since then, I lost all hope. No one remembers how to be there, it crusts,
cracks, malignant growths. I would rather be somewhere else, with the dog
When it doesn’t work, I spend the week medicating, then want the blood back.
The moment I recall has only to do with the pace, wit, and charm. I stare at the
photos, I want you again and again, I want you to think about it forever. The dog
eats roses apart on gold sheets, I let Pandora decide where to go, he waits for me
to give him another.
I plan to spend the whole day like this, feeding him, trying not to look at it,
indefinite loss, and the last of our synchronicity. I love for the word, I long for
totality, yes, this is the one, wanting only and nothing of I love you, I love you,
I hate you, in learning how to live I love you.
About Claire Molek