from Hail Gazers #3 by Dean English

I used to have a drinking problem:
I always ran out before I’d had enough.
And I brought too much, and drank
beyond the usefulness of alcohol—people
getting drunk happily releasing as they go.
I used to have a problem with unanimous.
No day belonged to when I wasn’t really sure
the Sun was not a Router— in a world
built for fiction; I started off determined
that this wasn’t Evolution but Addiction—
people growing out of each other
copious in starlit, through disaster,
and audit, and economies borrowing
and borrowing, for warmth, for wart
removal, the environment, the burrows
and bunkers and stations, colliders, soldiers,
stalwart psychoanalytical conclusions
made by leafy large windows about Pensions.

I used to stand in lightning with a rod,
a storm Chaser, a hail gazer in safety goggles,
icy tic tacs loud in the mouth;
I used to get my teeth bloody
hot with the research of the habitats
Conspiracy rabbits grew on people,
ears and eyes tickled in radio interference
from blood-sedated emotion-farmers
addicted to determination—I like my
non attachment—debated scriptural
declarations to hear you achieve Weather™,
like thieves, seeking dominion; I used
to like the shadow from the frames
of thought, the ribs of words used
to prove a point. I liked to move
the light source, so that what we’d been taught
fixed, moved, as the light moved. I thought
I felt as much. A ‘Cabin in the Woods’.
The children have no tops on, swimming
in air beneath the sinking feeling of a barometer,
manipulated, sliding on a lubricated sheet
down a grassy slope; the boys do not pay attention,
at all, to the girls hardened milk ducts;
there is one I am watching closer than the others,
she has a dark beginning in her wet underpants,
and where skin becomes a breast, there is a lift
in her awareness, and will require a changing of the guardians.

Originally posted


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