Argument, #11

Sean Lovelace



First shut your mouth.

Fine, I whisper, lips pressed. My middle finger below the table, winking.

Bend over. Prepare your spine for its splintering crack.

I will not bridle my imagination. I will set it free. The swollen river, the cardboard box, or bleeding hut; the highway shoulder of broken glass and typewriter teeth, no matter—I will let it be.

Listen to our news. To us!

A deafening whine from my aorta.

Hurl your soul.

To a God who can part the Red Sea, but hours after Christmas, will not stop a tsunami?

Close your eyes. Fill the night of your days with cries.

I instead choose apple slices smeared with blue cheese. A beer so tall it trembles.

Drop your shoulders, shrug. Let your ribs sag, your lungs deflate, your heart sway, a punching bag of blood.

I warn you: I embrace the silliness of dying.

Relax.

Fuck off! You're not as healthy as you look. Not as careful.

We exist spasmodic, so productive. We set the glittering constellations. We air blaze. Eyelid. We plumb.

Once you begin something, things fall apart. The sky capsizes. Loosening embers and katydids. The grayest bullets of rain. Another bent word. Another body, charred and stumbling, in hysterical flames.

Recline...

Fuck off!

Sleep.

Fuck off! I'll take my breakfast far from here, at midnight, on the roof, in lightning and rain. I'll eat my oats from a size six shoe. Everything you say is a ship run aground by this: You know something, you know something. But you don't. You smell like soil. Bad Faith and potting soil. Look there, way up in the dark: the geese I can't see are flying.





Sean Lovelace throws beers and drinks disc golf discs. Read his blog at seanlovelace.com