h o m e........
p a s t   i s s u e s....
s u b m i s s i o n s....
l i n k s






I condemn all alarm clocks, I
feel sorry for the glasses of water
I don't drink. These days, I dress
very slowly. You are dead, you have
no reason to police the bathroom clutter.
The TV tray that improvised as
your vanity lists like a doublewide
on stilts. Your shaving cream is
right where you left it; I haven't
used up its foam. But I still wash
with your soap, I still cinch
your combs in the ornery tickle
laid black by your brush. Not
that it would make you feel better. I
still do a lot of those things I've long
done, and I trust my observances
saw a severing I don't have to hone.
I want to meditate and to say without
hating myself, "I have made strides."
I love you, and you, too, annihilation.


                              IS       PRE-












                        THE INFANT CRYING ON OUR
                                                DOORSTEP IS MADE OF WOOD


The flattened smell of hair-dryer
hair oils the pillowcase fits. Naked
towels gossip their humidity in private
corners. A limestone of out-of-tune
piano lessons, crumbled on the sill. A pen
a prescription bombshell detonating
under the desklamp. Checks spider in
hasty countertop signatures, coupons
underfoot, niggardliness tut-tuts at every
odometer circuit. The pepper is a Dutch-
man; the honey, scotched. Come back
over, come here, and only then will I
tell you whether the many optimisms
we've still to swallow are tepid or
a duet, like pennies.



Red rover, red remnant, remnant,
remnant come over. Haven't you sipped
enough, and gelatin? Haven't you been freed?
No loss really riddles know-how, riddle flutters
too much to catch on the watery aberrations
of grammar's pranks. This much must
be true: I don't know what catch-22
I should not need in my time. I exhibit
only tacky immodesties. My lapels have
sampled the snot of bully knuckles. On the flip
side of this rich prick's world, I could pay off
every disturbance, set each entity against its
arbitrary contrary. And I might fidget all over
you, too, confident heels stabbing as oblique as
scandal, so callowly mistaken for beaks, piercing
feet as haughty and as overpowered by drivel
as your least cherished dessert.



THE       SUN







BIO: Joe Milazzo is the author of the chapbook The Terraces (Das Arquibancadas) (Little Red Leaves Textile Series) and the novel Crepuscule W/ Nellie (Jaded Ibis Productions). He co-edits the online interdisciplinary arts journal [out of nothing] and is also the proprietor of Imipolex Press. Joe lives and works in Dallas, TX; his virtual location is http://www.slowstudies.net/jmilazzo.

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