The impossible revolution

This is supposed to enflame you in a positive sense. Fire music does that, at the base, in the green of the statue. Utopia only in Canada. Only on Sundays in summer. “For instance, a certain contortion of the facial features would have them think and feel ‘pity.’" The metal of the bed holds me down so the wolf melts through the glass only to be trapped halfway in between. Hell can’t see us under here, caught in the springs. Thus we rest, letting the fire singe the edges. Close your eyes except on Sundays. Except in the summer. Vivez la revolution.

Obituaries

The mornings never change. I always clench myself against the setting moon's white burning gaze, as if by will to stop the day. All the songs I sing to pull myself awake, all the silky coffee downed in haste, all the flourescent above our heads is not enough to make the dreams fade away. Concrete slabs block each path until I find I am still seated among the bound, scribbling nonsense equations that ache to become something in this Real. Had I not endured the thorns and rocks on the beaten path, this is where I'd be: The newsprint rubbing off the stories of every last person I ever loved, the parking lots cracking a little more each year, my leather coat staining in the Friday night rain. The twilight stays the same. I dissintegrate into the darkening treeline, to sleepwalk in the peace of the deep.