“It was the way the ruined moonlight fell.”  It was the way the monastery ached into
existence.  It was the way opprobrium is usually the fault of the consumer.  It was the
way you made it yourself, the way you then owned it.  It was the way of containment. It
was the way of volume, the way of body, the way it was dead, the way it merely flipped.

It was the way of the geisha Satellite.  It was the way of the word and its hurtle.  It was
the way of the modern canon, the way a ham turns golden in an afternoon squall. It was
the way of the valley and the way of the mountain passes.  It was the way of equivalences. 
It was the way you had the best band, the most economical potter’s wheel.

It was the way he made the pass, the way you were passing.  It was the way the ruined
moonlight fell.  It was the way of the attack of the killer.  It was the way a parody
devours itself, the way of the orts of humor.  It was the way an expedition on the high
seas used to be able to see everything, the lands of ice, the phantasms of all roving souls.

It was the way of the right of return, the way it stoned the night.  It was the way citizens
leapt from the brink.  It was the way of the orts of ice, the attack of the killer.  It was the
way of the everyday. It was the way of the sleepless, it was the way of bricks long fallen,
the way they supported you after the incident, the way speech became intolerable.


Take a pickle of scientifics and 2 pair of halves.  Seethe.  At my request, skyward and take
out your salad between the claws then waste materials in 2 or 3 variants of Mahler.  But a lot
of green by all might be worried about you.  Thus ossify power in water’s gems.  Boil and
give very tender glue.  Let the liquor bite naked till it be very cold.  Pare off top and bottom.

You put to it half a pint of rosewater but Jackson is enough.  Sugar it with muffins bent
double in profusion, you put in 6 dropped from a height.  The only requirement is that
they are boiling.  Guiana and purples of ginger, and a gleam.  Also nutmeg and a fortune’s
worth of musk.  Pore over all, rubbed in a basin boiled to go-getters.  Nipple your museum.

Paid your fast day, lay out all the bottoms and a pound of fun butts, but throw out four
sugars giving but a little to the root.  Boys made of cabbages named Gottlieb in water and
 salt.  You drained, you water, for you lakes.  Pottery also lays your lakes.  The curator out
 of his marrow uses ginseng seasoning and as before you horror it until it is tapas. 

Put in the back of a surfeit of loneliness unfit for wind butter.  Add vermillion.  It is up and
 life, glories for drug is all out and given pounds.  New string clogging it in a flood, my pot
 buds on top of an andante composed welcomes.  Give sharper food, but keep it food till it
 lay out and cold.  Let it stand, tell it that it should be good Aukland and fire four.  Serve it.


The dragon kite passes a girl of indeterminate womanhood and salutes her like a small
round man.  The wall waves its small rattan hands in time to the music.  The couch smells

like preserved shrimp paste; someone calls my name and now I am shrimp paste. There

are yellow peppers lining the floor.  You are obviously your own complexion.

The woman of indeterminate girlishness will figure significantly in my story of winged
groping.  Our group draws tighter; we met at stamp camp when we were of indeterminate
emotional receptivity and squashed each other and exchanged furtive, birdbrained kisses. 
We initially bondaged over the Brazil and Oklahoma stamps, the one celebratory,

the other a stiff pair of Christians, but it bosomed into so much more.  At stamp camp we
did not just lick but also sang, as in the movie, and swung over lower Ausable Lake in a
burning tire.  Years later I would remember exactly the moment my tongue met Kenya
for the first time.  All I could think of was mintyfresh.  But friends, it was not to be.

No, the incidence of youth was not to last. She indeterminate, I overdetermined, we
agreed to part; found each other here yearlings later sipping monkeypicked and
momentarily without our comprehensive glossaries.  Couldn’t this have been done in an
email or in an empty room in the forest?  Give me your name.  This time I’ll hold it close.

«±  ±»

david goldstein is currently an assistant professor of English and Creative Writing at the University of Tulsa, where he is  completing his first book of poems, The Muses' Birdcage, as well as a scholarly book about digestion and originality in Renaissance literature.  His poetry appears currently in Alice Blue, and has been published in The Paris Review, Epoch, Terminus, In Posse, Shampoo,, The Journal, Zeek, Watchword, and other journals.