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. . .

Scott Abels

Suffix, now that Old Sharparms never comes to visit
to pull the wool over my soul
(was that good touch or bad touch?)
I don’t remember much about the solid winter,
only the enameling effect
you have to live inside for some time
in impenetrable positions
said Sharparms.)
Suffix, in my dream, you
asked me, finally, why,
and I could not answer
because I had been chasing after
a working definition
                            all my life:
since all your stories have a future,
why don’t they ever have a place?

       I would like to invite you into my kitchen.
       If you lived down the street, I would bring you a planet.

Now that his wife has died, like any death, the sound
being the last sense to leave the body, and this town
needs another kinesiology teacher, imagine
what that man could be
if someone would love him again. See him,
Sharparms, shoring his own heart up, physically,
against another heart,
the wet sounds of dancing
the immaculate fandango and genitals
bouncing around in his big seashell.
Old Sharparms fucking, in his bed, and screaming
in his sleep, he wakes himself up screaming, he,
wide eyed screaming,
remembers she’s dead.


Scott Abels

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