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Bends
I'm always wrong, in fact have helped build pyramids in honor of the Wrong gods, soaked each million-pound stone in the wrong kind of mortar (mortar itself is wrong for things so massive as to hold themselves in place) before hefting its bulk to a higher level. Each platform is its own continent, Sub-Saharan Pyramida, or Antpyramidica, or Babylon or anguish, where odd cultures—only odd to fingers whose tips have never traced love carved into sandstone with a toothpick—have forged their existences into private stock markets based on the value of a rhubarb, not to be confused with rhubarb pie, the idea of rhubarb, or rhubarb's sense of self-worth. I want to live in sand like a flea, scuttling between a licking ocean tongue and a coveting sand womb, laying eggs in places sea turtles might find them, that sharks in turn might find the sea turtles, that I by proxy might finally be shit into the void floating in the void incubated in the void born at deep sea where the current of neon coral-speak is so vague as to keep even daylight from hanging its cliché dogleg on everything where the bends is another way of saying STOP you're reaching for the light too fast, where STOP you must let your angelic body simply float where the current resides is another way of saying the bends. from Colorado Review and Verse Daily |
"Ron Paul Salutsky takes his readers from the deepest memories of childhood to the edge of our loneliest moments when the stars bloom in the night sky, and the trees and wind tell us their secrets. This is a world in motion, a world filled with goodbyes. Cars travel deserted highways, and we witness acts that he translates into poems of aching bravura. Romeo Bones is a deeply felt and moving debut collection." ~ Barbara Hamby ______ |
