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Every Week He Wants To Be Better
- Red Hen Press
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59 Every Week He Wants To Be Better I’m still erasing the memory of your black tongue, the way you thrilled me, off & on, leaving me no “if only” I could keep up with. Celery talks, but you have to listen so hard to hear it will kill you. Christmas Eve he dreams of things his mother might have taught him: but she is stubborn & mute as cheese before mold grabs hold, pungency sprung into the air like a handful of rancid birds unleashed from a blind of idiots, or worse . . . here the sudden champ on the rind, spitting out the clabber in his father’s foreign basement with its piles of Look magazine girls, shoulders exposed, the sullen hampers of dirty men’s clothes, the incendiary ripeness tripping about a VW van with the friends of a wished-for brother . . . with the pilot light back in the stove, he relishes the menace one can bring from one’s self, cooks up something slow 60 & forgets it . . . “Everything’s better a day later” & the whole time he ladled soup he apologized to no one there, large-mouthed hungerings subdued by fear’s hard dominion. ...