A Recount

an e.e. cummings style piece, written for my brother, and all those things we used to do.

  it comes to me a-cross the expanse

the crackling nondescript, 

TELL-

E-

phone.

"remember this (re) member

that..."

 

and all the things we used to...

 

(and here the long drawl, the pause of two coasts, accentuated by

the electric buzz,

                           the distance moans)

 

yes, once, i did

       once

in the prism of my lighted

(translucent)

   solitude, dream

once, as a prince of Iscariot

laden in silver, notably

shak (ing) (ily)

peer out abouts the common sands

swept tossing-ly yonder, where the

spires of mentality arise with the

shires of futility and

see there,

     once there,

the dampened soul, with head

too heavy to bare,

  mumble across my revery

 

once

 

oh the things we used to

                                     do

once, i blink

though

          twice, though.

 

(and here the receiver clicks with the operator's droll...)

Reviews

[9thstreetmatt]

everyone has moved on but me...listening to kill creek and thinking and thinking and and and . . cobble stone lawrence streets. means i can't let go. because i didn't figure anything out when i was there. but i am an addict of the sights and smells and the actual lacerations of living. . because pain has always made it comfortable, it made it through the good times that i never trusted and i knew not to. and i sit in an office every thursday to make sure that i am going to be happy and that you all will be happy for me and the head on both ends of the skull pounds like thunder over tongaknoxie and leavenworth prison breaks...and their are quiet moments that remind me of only myself on highway 24....perhaps a ghost slipped into human flesh and still feels lost while ventricles pass oxgenated blood from one electrical command to another. excellent poem. it is good to see the work still strong in you . . .