When the shit hits the fan will you describe me as completely destructive?
The war is waiting.
We stretched our tin-can-and-strings and the taut resonations spoke thus:
I have two browser tabs open: one about death statistics from drone attacks and one about arctic research
We hid in my outer space cave apartment for days. You had sex like a stalactite torso.
Connection be real just be yourself no regrets I’m not here to make friends
we’re in this funny industriousness channel surf of humany
bondage. Everyone calls us bad TV and we haven’t stopped them.
Yo homie the gnar-bone connects to the cortex to a TLC Bravo Pauly Shore movie
lexicon. Just maybe. Let’s get out of this heat baby.
I made love to you like an ice fortress bobbing glacier.
I’m just an ideal ice crab spider under the ice hungry for penguin bones is all.
I hit a butterfly in my work van. I fucked you
like a force field fever child’s action playset.
We had drinks and alright.
I want you all cherub cheeks obedient.
I’m all shit assed wrists to ankles
in the doomsday.
I wish you liked kids though.
By snuggling yourself missile silo blanket buried you reconcile this potential explosion.
Melting ice cap blast radius pour me out. By kissing cuts on you I collapse conscious.
By fixing the hemorrhaging body of your HD TV
I have undone my own web of carnage.
Theatres of warfare are you
talking about me?
How you loved me like a proximity mine. How we stepped with reckless abandon
and messed up hair. The mall that was a place that was a shrine that was a distance.
The fighting spirit of the roller rink. A DIY capitalism of tickets and plush toy takeovers.
The dusty bottles of pizza and microwaveable sodas. Long after your moisture evaporates from joysticks your salt remains. What a survive’d landscape this crust makes.
There’s a discordant sympathy to the arcade fun zone
in the mega shopping center in the heather.
the barbed wire like tentacles from the dumpster. Something will someday inherit our polluted lyric and carry the mantel! Whether or not you care. Well
I am sick of telling you what you want to hear.
I’m sorry for this beautiful and amazing connection we have. For your rubble bruises.
This isn’t all about you.
This is about the terrorism of our bodies. Our selfish liquids. This is an innard story.
How I loved you like a remote mine. I lost the detonator in the car. I am oft left thereafter
is the brittle weather egg of me. Always
I squeeze too hard. Always
Sometimes I flamethrower myself to cigarettes because I love so much
I want to feel what it’s like to hate and preside over the broken unleash’d
free. The architecture that was the only home I ever knew. The reminder that I did not
in fact belong. The international writers offer me an assembly line of cigarettes and I smoke them. I can feel my fingers lock in chubby sacks of fluids you form crisscrossing them to look at an eclipse and make half moons of the shadows
in the evaporating gasps of soil. Like a pulsing near newborn chick. The thin downward spirals or dirt mazes of fingerprints. We were sort of here. But we vanish.
Like when I rolled the van in the ashamed Midwest
highwayside soft soil
when I was driving one of the international writers to the airport
and he was telling me about publishing poetry in the Arab world.
I spent over an hour scraping pieces of dripping ceramic skull from the
pavement and wringing chesthair dress shirt red soaks to the dirt like bomb’d fountains.
Of course no one stopped.
So this is the measure of a writer
I laughed from the wreckage to no one.
I was not paid for that drive.
Still my tongue feels
like unpaved asphalt.
Still my teeth the naked musculature and pathetic wiring of
Russell Jaffe lives in Iowa City, IA, USA, where he edits the poetry chapbook press and reading series Strange Cage. His poems have appeared in American Letters & Commentary, La Petite Zine, DIAGRAM, Shampoo, and others. His book This Super Doom I Aver is forthcoming from Poets Democracy. He collects 8-tracks.