Our Andromeda Read Free

that person is trapped.
    A “lifer” has no real life but what do we call the rest of us?

    How terrifying it is to try trying!
    Which frying pan will best
    kill the loved one? Which will
    make the best omelet?

    The books on the bookshelves are touching themselves
    like virgins. But I’ve had them.

It Never Happened

    Let’s just imagine that you are magical,

    that no light would flicker and no battery

    die and no lover or wife or other can claim

    you while you are with me. Let’s imagine

    that you shiver and shudder and eat

    my lamb and my rice pudding and drink

    the wine and the whiskey and the cognac

    and the elderflower never taking your

    eyes off me. Let’s imagine that I am also

    magical and can cook lamb and rice

    pudding and pour many drinks without

    ever taking my hands off you. Let’s imagine

    you are unable to control yourself when

    we are together, that we are all thumbs

    and soft mouths and terrible fingers

    and eyes of moon and eyes of sea and that

    we smell beautiful to each other for no

    reason. Let’s imagine you drove to my

    house and your headlights did not flicker

    and your battery did not die and you

    were able to control the car and so

    are not on the side of the road, not dead

    or hurt but not anymore on your way

    to my house either, calling your lover

    or wife or other to come pick you up

    and bring you home instead of coming

    here, where there is no lamb, after all,

    and no more wine, either, after all

    this waiting, imagining you’re magical,

    imagining what you’d say to her: “Um,

    I was on the other side of town to pick

    up some wine for dinner” or “I was

    meeting old buddy Tom for a drink, he’s

    just in town the one evening. Might

    be home late.” But you were never

    coming over, never even invited. As if

    I’d ever be so clever. In fact I was just

    imagining you’re magical when you called,

    roadside, nearby, a blown battery for

    no reason, for a ride home to your lover

    or wife or other. You were on your way

    home to her where she was preparing lamb

    and rice pudding and when I dropped you

    off you invited me in and I said no, not

    taking my hands off the wheel, though

    I wanted to imagine that your eyes flickered

    and shivered and you said you couldn’t

    control yourself, couldn’t take your eyes

    off me, that I smelled like beautiful wine,

    like elderflower, like pussy willow,

    that you called me lamb and kissed me,

    knowing that this very last part is the story’s

    only true part, in which you touched

    and kissed me with your wheel of fingers,

    your terrible lying mouth.

The Seven Deadly Sins of (and Necessary Steps toward) Making Art

    Pure art is, in a sense, pure innocence.
    But artists are, in themselves, putrid with paradox.

    The following seven sins/steps should help the wretched
    to remember: the pitfalls are the progress!

    1. DEADLINES

    Aka Avalanche Everlasting,
    Opportunity Oppression.
    â€œYou will miss me then I’m gone…”

    All at once a million kinds of calendar.

    2. MOTIVATION

Ask yourself:
What is my longing?
Answer yourself:
I long for the world, in the form of a person, which is me, in the form of a new world, in the form of a new person, which is the new me, in the form… ad infinitum.

    3. GOALS

    Stop staring out that old woman’s window like a cat.

    4. DISTINGUISHING BETWEEN “SAYING” AND “DOING”

    â€œEveryone dies”
    is different from
    â€œEveryone died.”

    5. SELF-ABSORPTION

    This inner spinning, that petty city
    the mind built,

    robs the psalm of its robe of calm,
    my naked voice thin and shrill in the wind.

    6. DELUSIONS OF GRANDEUR

    I’m such a fraud
    I can’t even convince you
    of my fraudulence.

    7. EVERYDAY MAGIC!

    The new burn on my knuckle,
    white, shiny, raised:

    our dinner’s afterlife, lingering ghost.

Karaoke Realness at the Love