I am not jealous of the berries in Sweden until Miho says with searing sweetness at Alissa’s party I was jealous of the berries in Sweden,
distraction from rapture by different rapture but to tell of all the raptures would let escape the remainder of our minutes
which is why we glue mirrors everywhere. I’m searching for an entourage to be a part of, a vehicle impervious
yet open to the oceanic flukes of contact. The berries wait. Every second makes them more of what they are. Numerous personnel
have invaded me. Numerous personnel have I invited and many watches have I lost. Aggression returns, over and over,
sprinting through each season, leaving on the ledger imprints of steel boots incapable of the reflection that makes of breathing
such a lavish riddle. Nothing to be done but make and be stuff for it to come wreck each time. The berries in Sweden
don’t even take photographs. Look at the fracture that passes for a smile on our face, as if we’d just discovered that the pain
is a gathered wrath of effervescent roses, each petal a name that sings a pang into our frail and brilliant carriage.
We careen want-spun down the avenues of our own specific and lush time. How brave. Not for an extra second would we take back
anything we have given, though we are thirsty, though we are threatened stockings
bulging with chrysalises and the clouds’ mouths won’t tell us anything.
The labels and label makers come later, the lofty prerogatives, the philosopher despising indulgences of the body and thus
unequal to an ordinary refrigerator, sheets with high thread counts. What comes first is the size of a fist and 30 seconds later
it’s out of the reach of any other fist ever. Archers, gentles, others: supreme architectures demand superior catastrophes.
Guilty of desolations birds flew above, the first robot demanded a robot queen and a story about how his side hurt
and even now it is unclear how this story grew into every other one, but birds flew above, and later paint
to the rescue, and quills. The lute was invented. Sometimes a number of people must die for those remaining
to agree upon the meaning of reaching consensus. The story is a story of poison, of love, of knavery
and battering rams and delicate baked goods. So much to complain about, so much to perish by while enamored of.
The story is of pangs with no cause and no remedy. Meadow into pothole, cauldrons of committees. Reparations?
Reparations can never be made. And we will never give full account of our peculiar and tenacious joy.
We Blow the Pants Off Our Competition
You know our stylo by what can’t be erased from the sky.
Your pants in our hands become traveling flags
natives across the globe lift their rare elixirs to.
The mountain wouldn’t without the say-so
of our committee, and our committee
is made of irrevocable ascending. We play percussion with bank
accounts, war is like breakfast and we wipe our lips
with doves that never stop flying. We can’t be
ruffled. Of course you admire our sunglasses:
they will never break. We contain platitudes
that shiver the timbres of your disinterested
philosophies. Our desert makes an outhouse
of celestial utopias. Parapsychology is like
finger counting to five for our most simple lamps.
We never ever sleep. Please call us.
Dromania Means Wanderlust
Look at how amazing everything is but then stop looking at how amazing everything is because it dulls
and then one moves as though through dishwater toward never collapsing ashore. The rhetor perishes at the zenith
of arresting intersections being overcome by the sparkle and gait of everything
in its amazing state of being everything not still and thus amazing-looking until it just kills you to wake.
From the ceiling I can see me like a roving hungry something dreaming a ravenous campaign
to silence the unquenchable amazing that stretches from here to there and back. I must go there and back,
must everything muzzle. I will lace my spine with everything’s excessive amazing so we will never so keenly hurt
again. Nothing will ever ripple so relentlessly or be so still as the late, small bird
in a corner of white brick in the middle of a morning when the monsoon has stopped.
-- Marc McKee received his MFA from the University of Houston and his PhD from the University of Missouri in Columbia, where he lives with his wife, Camellia Cosgray. Recent work appears in Sixth Finch, Sou’wester, Pebble Lake Review, The Journal, and Artifice. He is the author of a chapbook, What Apocalypse? (New Michigan Press, 2008) and two full-length collections, Fuse (Black Lawrence Press, 2011) and Bewilderness (forthcoming, Black Lawrence Press, 2014).