Here is a series of ugly sounds that I make to beckon you near me.
Here is the hot stink of the Tupperware kept in my chest.
Here is the shirt that I wear so that I look like a person.
Here are the pants that I wear so that I walk like an animal.
Here is a bouquet of sparrows at your feet.
Here are the keys to my throat.
Here is your portrait in piano wire,
in a squid's last ink,
Here is the satellite that I put you inside.
Here is the satellite where I live.
Here are five stupid fingers.
I know where your left shoulder lives.
I go there when I sleep.
My imagination is a naked animal, giving you a glare
like you're the one who ought to know better.
My ambition is the same animal with longer hair.
It will live in my house forever and ever.
Here is the misinformation to which I have committed.
Here is the bottle you were searching for, devoid of content.
Here is a letter to go inside of the bottle;
this is what it says. Please,
will you put it away inside of your room?
Will you take it with you into space?
The Million Little Lights
The Three County Fair was absolutely great, in the same way that historians and magazines consider the events at Chernobyl to have been “great.” It was humid and crowded, and every spouse I have ever had was there.
Some of them had bold new haircuts that looked hip and fresh and done with me. Some of them carried our children high on their shoulders like trophies from the hunt. Some of them had found themselves new spouses in new spouse shirts and they were feeding each other funnel cake and kissing under the million little lights as if they were the Earth and Moon and the lights were all the stars. I was completely beset by planets in heat. My neck hurt from facing up at the damp night sky. Clearly I had, on one or another day of my clumsy life, been married to every last human shape on the whole wide fairgrounds.
I would have gone home, but that summer my entire house reeked of my previous marriage. So I spent the whole night choosing not to leap off the Ferris wheel, just hanging on up there, glaring out the corner of my eye and saying to myself, “Not you again.”
Steve Subrizi lives in New England and has read across America. His work has appeared in such places as The Scrambler, NOÖ Journal, Muzzle, and Monday Night. His e-chapbook Newly Wild Hedgehog is available from NAP, and he is live-tweeting a chapbook, Fields of Teeth, @fieldsofteeth and at www.fieldsofteeth.com. He plays in a band called The Crazy Exes from Hell.