Take the time we were all in bed after a day

At the lake, where the smell of fresh sheets

Mingled with the dead fish, weed, and beer

Rising from our skin as we drifted to sleep

In a nest, and I dreamt we were wanted,

Running through the woods for dear life

(Because we are together) breathless,

And when we rest, I stay up the night

Fighting to keep my eyes open as morning

Comes, not for fear of being caught,

But that sleep would take the way I feel,

Our futures folded in on the past,

Leaving a tangle of echoes in the present.

We are a funeral pyre and a bonfire,

The whole is not the sum of its parts,

The parts contain the whole,

And the whole contains the parts&mdash;

There is just this mountain of us,

A flare of light, and this empty awareness&mdash;

Ghost platitudes of the aboriginal star.

I still hear but can&#39;t remember who it was

Who laughed through their teeth as they

Bit my ear and tickled me awake

For farting and hogging all the room.

Seeing too much is seeing too little&mdash;

The sun in your eye is unfathomed time

With no regard for who and what remains,

An unending arrow of irrevocable loss.


Arrow of Time

Glowing cloud above the foot of the bed.

Outside, sounds sound American all night.

It&#39;s a plot to make the future the future.

Joys will not be the same. Snows are sure

To last the summer. We fuck whatever

Wants us and our habits admit the past.

Books, changed by rain, pause and reflect.

We go from garden to grave, waves convey

Danger and safety are one and the same:

We say &ldquo;fancy meeting you here&rdquo; but mean

&quot;Untouched, altered, shimmering, limited,

Indifferent.&rdquo; A sheen is playing up a lover

Drowning in a plot to tend when its awful

Absence is what will cause our shadow

To retreat from criminal society for a lark.

It&rsquo;s the same poison abstract made material&mdash;

Orbits full of what we want, the last song

Is a palace: Live here free forever. Your

Habits just habits. The garbage strikes

Changed attitudes about marrying for love.

To what do we owe this pleasure is tattooed

Across your face in little fuck-you fingers&mdash;

And that takes up a lot of room, more than

You imagined it would: Designed to be

The truth exactly of what money was barely,

As if that translates into what we might

Understand by this plastic philosophy alone.


Beautiful Weather Day

My die-cut heart has grown implacably thin 
On a hardscrabble fantasy, but that's love 
For you, dangling on a chain of keys to nothing. 
She's an insomniac drooling in the sun, my heart 
That is, a thousand roses pressed in a book of flesh. 
That's not the dumbest thing I could say but close. 
How about hunger is a voice field dressing a live 
Wolf as we make out with it&mdash;the improper fit 
Of our mouths pressing together in abject passion, 
As its fur, a slipped off negligee, drops to the floor 
With measurable attack, sustain, and decay. 
Blood resigns from the body as a voice says, 
Yes, say that, except rise and fight with Satan 
Who has long loved God more than any man


Cargo Cult

Sisyphus punches in, each morning,

At a mountain he must face, all day,

In hell, for eternity, and at night,

Having not reached the summit,

Again, he walks down slow, where

The rock rushed by, careful to see,

With new eyes, where it all went

South, again, and then, later,

At the bar, in town, sits cooling his

Bleeding hands against a whiskey,

On the rocks, and maps new paths,

On a napkin, inside the wet ring

His tumbler made, again and again,

The routes running on to absurd

Lengths, hands shaking, and if it

Wasn&#39;t a map, you might think

It was the history of history,

Or parts of a nude in repose,

Patient with death and belonging.


Harmony

The soundtrack to my life scenes vanishes&mdash;

Having read the anthology of dangers,

It seems I still place my faith in strangers.

I stick my finger in the dam above the end.

Are these evening lights on the water bright

Swaying grass in a breeze or luminescent

Snakes swimming? Or children in a conspiracy

Of fun and grace, transcribing radio waves

In various colors, from various dimensions,

Across distances only dolphins comprehend?

The sign says the Lions are hosting a pasta

Dinner in town. It&#39;s not an accomplishment

To deliver the boring news, however, there&#39;s

A quietus between what it says and what it

Will mean. The capacity of now is a complex

Of durations. A new calm is at hand. Still,

Spoken words fly away, written words remain&mdash;

They rose from nowhere and are for no one.


Aaron Fagan

Arrow of Time

Beautiful Weather Day

Cargo Cult

Harmony

Loser’s Hymn in the Evening Land

Harmony

Aaron Fagan

A Better Place Is Hard to Find

Arrow of Time

Beautiful Weather Day

Cargo Cult

Harmony

Loser’s Hymn in the Evening Land

Harmony