by Thomas Osatchoff
question like crumbs in a fairy tale metro knowing the intentions of any ball of a city isn’t easy, especially because there isn’t any easy good into ride want came. Sean, right now I want to recall NYC in 1999. Seeing Blink 182 in the September streets on a float. Ducking into a glass building, snubbing us might not have been a desert heated to hotter than humans can survive caring about blink this brutality—not that brutality.
The dog brings the bull back. Spring brings the lost memory metals. Balled up. Balled up. Getting tossed unless we get everything still getting thrown by the time we need it we’ve found it crumpled, unfolding something else. I think on the compound that’s called catalyst. Screenprints in others complete. We’ve completed every challenge rising up the waterfall to who owns this island splitting itself to grab us yes, we want that —the question is how? Because of course it matters how we get there. We can want the tools to do things separate from the things done but the things are changing in relation to the tools and language inextricable. And we are more than things in meaning’s abyss picking our way to the next lemon mine. Your black eyes burning brightly the way we are more than spikes on the next great railway.
Robin Blaser, the era of my grandfather. Many other beat down bad practitioners in the unseen waiting to be emperor. Mumpsimus with a face like this coin depicting Sumpsimus meeting in symposiums of letters busy building invisible yet sumptuous exoskeletons. Night vision taking in the settings. Projected star field on the belly of the mind. That unknown thing in the sky like Christmas lights. Branded Stallion Orchid and the Sandhill Crane constellations converging in shades of terbia. White powder, white powder. Hearing something else amorphous as non-amor going back to Indo-Unseen h3erǵh-i-, whence also, with differing suffixation and ablau in the subs where ostriches have beaks in the have been aquiclude untransmitted springs, wells abstaining from that word career, a net messager invites you to view an expanded selection of works by not clicking here
in the life cycle in the puddling furnace. “Resolving host….” Significant events about to occur. It’s going to happen. Forgetting to recall an animating auxiliary verb construct, former supposed endure-all token personality service worker once upon a design disenabled to address the root’s root dressin’ itself
in the first, we wanted pink to push through without saying it. Or just wanted to get big enough to attract amoebas of control. Trying not to watch this new show, Our Baby Bulimic, but our one-year-old keeps sticking saliva on fingers deep into it’s not easy to forgive while asleep. Either of us…still sleeping in stories of which there are so many ways to read these shells shading unseen in the fluid’s impressionistic self down there in the il fait chaud zone looking for something cold as hard to find in the changing where morphemes continue patterning away under our poppy ne’er-do-well induced carrying us tar explanations called carriage living inside grains of mythic hydrogel both unreal and actual resolution
between then and any non-ubiety imagining you’re a VIP fade out feeding on we recall
birds slamming into the windows. Meadowlark Lane winged lemons between seasons crossing Atlantic or Pacific corpus callosum to your cassonade in changing hemispheres where our dog, Shadow or She-Ra Adora, runs in the fields behind our house in summer when it’s dry these thoughts go up obnubilating slightly stretched blackbirds grouped in evergreens recalling those blue eggs. My eyes are still nests but they’re inflamed with the rest of me—with the rest of us. Now the birds are windows watching themselves like chained dogs trying to get another bone. Or looking at you to see us otherworldly landscapes
Thomas Osatchoff, together with family, is building a self-sustaining home near a waterfall. Recent work has appeared in Arteidolia, The Elevation Review, Otoliths, and elsewhere.
scissors & spackle 