Wednesday, 14 July 2010

after heavy editing advice from emily w and eva s:


in the last frame of the photostrip
its just photobooth curtains,
a mess of hair and flailing hands.

i pass out on the L train and end up in manhattan,
rubbing my eye-bags. legs gave out so someone carries
me to a doctor or a taxidermist; above the receptionist
a stuffed wolf's head, teeth sharp and straight.

the third frame is scratched out like a lotto ticket,
no hints left.

by the time i’m back to brooklyn,
the sun has turned it into a brick oven.
at the table with a wallet full of numbers
i try to remember things. the barista wears a handgun.

Second , two joke-kissed. a third lit a match,
held just inside the frame.

at the bodega they burned barrel fires,
smoke of steel and plastic choking up the room.
I thumbed a matchbook--directions to a house--
must have gone, but next thing i remember is
subways cornering, the tilt and creak,
speeding curve and sudden stop.

in the first frame of the photostrip we smiled huge,
lip-cracking smiles, our eyes shone like candy wrappers.


Jake Tucker said...

You write good. this is an example of that. specifically imagery and gun wearing.

Ryan A. Johnson said...

Your revisionism was successful.