4/21/2018 0 Comments Poetry by Peter Burghardt Ben Churchill CC
Snooze button it takes long so mystic becomes streetlights where day used to come a bird on the fence is banded elsewhere notness grows into you washing my neck in the dark I said I’d see no nothing but meant I’m with the mud and can’t walk inside or ruin it imagine it’s like what you beg for when you shouldn’t mix insomnia with your other abyss you tell yourself you’ll pay for it we’re always paying for what we thought inheritance would be though the mail still comes on Saturdays our neighbor is thinking of slaughtering his rooster Coach Our sleep’s raw plume trailed in the sky after the experience our friends had taken to be with each other its not time that we expected to compact our rituals that pass into the eye and past the instant I take a lyft back home to my work though now it is raining again turbulence relegated above me a seat without walls 4/10/17 I build glimmer and it turns out to be as reckless as it sounds every person I know does this too builds that which is so tangible in one’s apprehension one becomes the eye touching the dark with its own antennae a wand of parlor tricks to help sleep and feed the life of the brain which I hear is an ever depreciating asset or worse worth nothing like your testicles nothing to science and if science won’t hold our shared delusions then we should find Nate Silver and bury the present deserved Bio: Peter Burghardt is a poetry writer based in Oakland, CA, where he co-publishes speCt books. He is the author of Cosmic American Music (Old Gold, 2017), and his recent work has appeared in such journals as The Elephants, Tammy, The Offending Adam, Witness, The Laurel Review, and White Stag.
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