UNTITLED, AARON WILCOX (GLAZED PORCELIN, ZIP TIES)
I read somewhere
that the brain
de-compartmentalizes
when you
sleep or jerk off or
the mounds of
cells strapped
to each other
might somewhere
break lose to remain
suspended both
archaic or
repurposed
when I lay
I remember cancer
is painless
from the start
to eat
both ends
of a carrot
at the same
time to look
into a glass
bottle or how
much money
have I spent
on the various
things that will
fulfill me beer
to watch football with
my AT&T bill
& what might
the tendon in my
left knee do if
not so tight
possibly remain
in one of the line
or arch tracing
higher than St. Louis
or Albert Pujols
batting nearly perfect
my house’s
chimney must
be cleaned & it’s
all gummed up
or how can I not
stare at her
nipples hard
through my shirt
or compare her
nipples to the porn
star riding the fuckmachine
or what about
the time you said
you’d fuck
the 2nd basemen
sitting in the stands
you’re right
it doesn’t bother
me like it
should & if
I think of you
tying his hands
above the bed
while you go
down on him hey
batter, batter don’t
take it so hard
the recycling
needs to go but
we don’t recycle
the purpose of matter
is to stick the slouching
old man
in the stands
winks while
you pass me
sunflower seeds
or how do I say
thank you
without letting
you know I
appreciate
what you do
& remain
the stability
hung from
the upper deck
never let loose
from THICKETS SWAMPED IN FENCE-COATED BRIARS
the half-broken
pines,
just what I
can attach.
nature to
have, to go.
my knees
crack, light
between,
hardly anything
but birds.
cracks, grainy
leaves
above crunch
the tarp. just
when
an across fell,
the heron came back
to sit. ashamed
of the first limb
lost to survey
for baitfish. her eyes
met grey clouds,
a kind
of new
form
that soon left.
and then I laid myself to rest with words of below this ground lies a man with only one true home that he could remember, a screen door of which he has ran into nearly a dozen times, chasing nothing of which he can recall still he remembers the ones who have said poor people abuse the system like his uncle his night at the gambling barge set up by the used car lot, it takes its toll on his body his hepatitis his spots on his liver as dark and pooled as swamped rainwater in the gully of highway 88 in April just passed the junkyard where cars are buried in the creek and you can see their headlights the 75 Pontiac the Ford Geo looking out at you tracing you on the way home from baseball practice just past Devil’s Stairs a rock formation that was laid up by the state on accident when they started to pave that mountain and ran out of money
EVAN GRAY was born and raised in the Appalachian Mountains of North Carolina. He has earned an MFA in poetry from the University of North Carolina, Wilmington, and his work has appeared or is forthcoming with Inter rupture, Otoliths, Word /For Word, ‘Pider, and others. His chapbook, BLINDSPOT (THE REST (Garden-Door Press, 2017) will be available this fall.