ISSUE  1   2   3   4   SUBMIT


Jason Zuzga

A glisten of sixes coming at you from the night sky twirling-
these numbers are bingo—too close—you twin and fall down
the stairs. The you twin watches the I twin tumble laugh and bruise
or combustion. Those amazing incredible breakfasts with their softnesses
that meet your fork. This is another breakfast in New Jersey
with the family. Tricks with salt and eggs. A school bus falls through
the ice, dubbed in French. Montreal comes all over me, summer running down
the night street with a fountain full of detergent suds bubbling into the air
on my left and a boy I just met in my right hand, we are speaking in French
and Italian and English. We run to the river and there we strip off our
clothes and then we start kissing plus more
until we are entirely covered with happy juices and cut grass.
I go to the same place a week later and there is a dog that I photograph.
I twin and one of me is in Canada the other one of me
is in Rhode Island ricocheting bop bop bop around the campus
to a mattress on his floor by a sultry window getting down off the wall
and turning into a rectangular gospel singer.
“Do anything to me that you want you can do anything,”
he says in my ear and I don’t know what I want but I roll with him
under some sheets and it’s like there is a squadron of men
all of us one kind and epic team of smiles wrestling our arms
around each other, kissing each other’s legs, bursting up
from the ice with a school bus in one hand full of kids
cheering and in the other hand
a fork with the number spiked loose on the tines.
Where is the leg on this body? Where is the hair
in the puzzle of rust? I am running my skin
over the place to detect things, filling up the station
with acrobatic traces, feeling
cool climates up under the trolleys.
It’s all sloshy on the skin, six kinds of nerves
streaking up your neck to the planetarium
where my held hands floats and rotates like the death star
as rendered by the projector, plans slipped into your slot.
I am holding your hand again, haptically,
trying to make the conductor do duty
we’ll need a liquid here, a path between the seas
a hot pocket of tunnel between limbic
stations. Feeling inside and out.
I mean the bees in my body
are restless again tonight
and want to break out and swarm you,
then return in a vibrating cloud.
Reveal your whereabouts
and profile through formulaic
waggle dances in my brain.
The fuzz on the bees
is pollen to my nerves, my dendrites
finger them up under their bee chin marimba.
I retract my limbs, fold into myself and roll down flower bed,
dented by pebbles and sticks.
Toward you eating your sandwich
all that mouthfeel of kaiser roll, lettuce,
and ham weave. All that stuff in your mouth.
What are you feeling over there? What is your skin
doing as it stretches and elastics
back to zero sum around your jaw.
You can make kisses out of the bundled densities now
or put something to my lips, lips to lips.
Pressure. Heat Cold or Pain. Vibrations.
And there you are just sitting there,
wrapped up in yourself.
Bring your skin closer
so I can see how it feels.
All rocks are gay. By this I mean
I’m gay. I mean rocks don’t reproduce.
I could reproduce if I set my mind to it
but my medulla doesn’t cooperate.
But what I mean is like coal
like uranium like a meteor.
Like I like you. But I love you.
These rocks move from here
to there. With our handminds
or a slope. Wind comes, water,
jackhammers make a scenic drive.
Potential energy sneaks up on
this rock and goes kinetic.
The rock rolls down the hill.
The rock stops. It rests
facing up this way
for the next thirty years.
It doesn’t care. But I love you.
Rocks don’t float. Rocks don’t sing.
Rocks don’t dance. But I love you.
Something happens somewhere
and gravity is turned off. All rocks
float up or not. They tap together.
There is a sound like happy rain.
The rocks fly around. Then gravity’s
back. They fall or rather
head back to the molten center
as far as they can get.
Rocks don’t have tongues,
only mass and patience.
This rock could crush your skull.
This rock could weigh your papers
down in the crazy wind. Sirocco.
Santa Anna. Hurricane Rock.
This rock could be a panther.
This rock is a rock. Inside of
this rock is more rock. For rocks,
it’s still night. No light. Even at noon.
When the eclipse is over, the rock
doesn’t care. But I do and I love you.
All rocks are not hungry. All rocks are
sighing off electrons. All rocks are waiting
for the end of this world which,
because rocks have no sense of time,
(except that wecan discern by
the measurable breathing off
of those electrons) it’s like the end
of this world for a rock is happening
now. There is no wait. It’s over
before it begins and
the rock is shining in the heat
of the expanding sun.
A cup of light.
This rock is underwater but doesn’t drown.
All sand is rocks. This rock
if struck with a perfect hammer
(time + lichen + water)
would collapse into so much sand.
Potassium. Vanadium. Boron.
I love you.
This rock is underground.
It is a knuckle.
Not mine, mine bends.
The petrified forest,
Tree chunks like lost teeth.
The rocks are not tunneling around.
The rocks are not anxious everafter.
The rocks are not tawdry, jealous, rude.
The rocks are ignoring their edges.
The rocks are full of vibrational music.
The rocks move in your mouth,
You say Antlers, Alcatraz, Abyssynia,
with rocks in your mouth, Atlas.
Argon. Aluminum. Acid. No, don’t say Acid.
Say these words with rocks in your mouth:
Alabaster. Arginine. Able. Africa.
Assortment. Aorta. Aspire. Australia.
I love you. I do. I love you.