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weekend, single, no job

Joel Patton

Wrists sclerotic, desiderata languid in sore head, deep cortex folds. I lumber out of
the dry slimy twist of the bedclothes, where I fucked nobody. The washrag ossifies
on the sink’s lank hanghook. The bed lists and spills the winedark sheets. I wish I
knew where I were. Calypso, impossibly Celtic, eggshell-skinned, her pubic hair the
same hot auburn orange as the hair on her head, lips and nipples a pink there’s no
word for and so must be kissed. Imagined. Real enough before. Spinges to catch
woodcocks, no, wrong image.

Myrrh: the stray cat out the window.

Chitterling: the squirrel on the branch.

Scree: the floor.

Scrim: the dresser drawer.

Nothing I’m looking for is there. My deadweight hands drag the gurry of my loose
effects. Not this photo, not this change, not this little sack.

I remember Troy. The prat. Always drunk and pawing Cassandra and licking the back
of her neck while she deliberated long weeks whether to fuck me.

Sleeping has brought me this far. (“The cracked pane throws a jagged rainbow on the
floor.”) My meat-hands suss out the twenty-dram bottle. Boli rattle in its belly but they
patter on my palm. Red capsule is the best on hand. Can’t wash it down with pipesmoke.

I drink the quarter-beer on the nightstand and sink and roll into the womb – ship – bed,
dammit. I arrange myself under the wisps of sheet.

Joel Patton

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