New Year’s DayJen Currin
I signed the contract: I will hold on to pain. Let it burn a tumor in my throat. Take all parts of myself, put them to sleep. My good foot in hell. Television in place of food. We go in terror of ourselves. Skeletons with lanterns— we are terrorists of grand proportions. Eating the stale history written indifferently. I kiss the tyrant’s statue and fall to my knees. But first let us pass through this gate of ambitious skeletons. Every briefcase says the same thing: Memory blotter. You focus on the fist. * If I’ve made anything but peace, let me sit down on this bench and breathe into this bottle. Lightning cracks the jar of night. A murdered journalist recites from a slim volume of verse. On the other side, in some unknown mouth, you are counting what cannot be counted. My friend, I am sorry we’ve made war.
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