photography
Self Evident
It’s not so much the truth that bothers
Truths like lies
can sometimes shift
so whether they’re spat or whispered
they’ll always unfold
It’s the lying that kicks up the brick dust
The you can lie to them, we all do it
We’re all a them to someone
Where honesty hung off the tongue ready to dive
there’s only omission
a clean unwillingness
to break down and be an outright liar
Cowardly, feverish, but ready
my truth will lay in wait in trenches of jowls
Let the world have it
when necessary
when commanded
until then
Fuck’em my shit is self evident
Paperboy
Disabled,
out of work,
out of workman’s compensation,
he works a paper route.
Seven days a week at six a.m.,
he places the papers gently.
Never lobs them,
never leaves them in the dewy lawn .
He abides every instruction:
If the Buick is gone, leave the paper on the porch.
Throw it over the dogs, if they’re out.
Come on in, help yourself to some coffee.
He delivers his papers to people:
Dusty. Double D. Agnes. Herbie.
He knows about their kids–
how many they have,
how often they visit.
They know how he takes his coffee, black.
Tony Mac.
Husband of Sue.
Father of three.
Retired machine operator,
with bad back, neck, knees.
Their paperboy,
a man measured in more than column inches, rides a Harley without a helmet, drives his mother to her appointments, and has two Shih Tzu, Zed and Dude.
Little do they know
about the Thursdays
before the dumpsters roll through,
when he works over the trash waiting to be collected.
He collects the remnants of lives discarded, and leaves newspapers in exchange for their VCRs, lawn chairs, trinkets.
He takes his coffee black and quick
and returns to his route. He’s home by 7 to help his wife off to work.
In with her sandwich, a note
scratched out on a purple Post-it:
Tonight, you will have a present waiting, my love.
by Autumn Konopka
The Ceiling
The view swallows me whole
from down here
it’s cold
i look up
into the light
outlining my hands with darkness
as i reach
past my station
and my level
and my class
and my knowing
into tomorrow
pushing a lil further
the sticky bits of yesterday’s dreams
clung to my skin
broken stems of possibilities
scrape and bleed
past more dusty realities
ineffable
straining my arms until they were sore…
further still
Letters To A Stranger
Come in
Tell me of your trip
of memories gained
pictures taken
food eaten
Tell me of curries and roads I can’t pronounce
gates swinging
of your father’s stare
when he realized how much you look like him now
Tell me about mountains and city-scapes
hungry faces
yellow eyes and green irises
About your dream girl just there
Come in quick
Did his eyes swell with pride
or a glint of selfishness
wishing he was young again, undoing certain choices
Tell me about the train you missed
the mists over fields
the mansions and shacks
how the words jumbled around in your mouth before
now familiar
just easing out
Tell me of oceans
and time zones
animals
Speak to me until we are no longer strangers
but kin
establishing a reconnection
Do the men where you come from sway when they talk
Do the women where you come from shuffle their feet as they walk
and even though the stars are the same
if you tell me
that you laid there
under their luminous glow, wishing
I will know they must’ve been brighter than any stars
I have ever known
Overture
Who can open the door,
of the green river,
of the golden clouds,
of my heart?
— By Zuhur Dixon, Iraq
I Can Do Bad All By Myself
Here emoting into a pillow
that won’t hold me back
I didn’t need new
when I had you.
Ramble on,
copper crystals
drip from his lips
hold no weight.
I am silver and spun honey
a caramelized glazed piece in the wind
remember that.
Nails break,
I don’t.
Oceans
I have a feeling that my boat
has struck, down there in the depths,
against a great thing.
against a great thing.
And nothing
happens! Nothing!… Silence… Waves…
–Nothing happens? Or has everything happened,
and are we standing now, quietly, in the new life?
Juan Ramón Jiménez (translated by Robert Bly)
