and how almost lovely.
marauded by terrorizers, into our flight path
many things noticed and un-. Voices like rain
funneled through a busted megaphone,
hands like claws, tail-lights out—what can be
mistaken for safe? We honor the dead
by living how? What of their sad and failing reach
whistles through the Society for Creative
Anachronism?—seen once a week over months
the SFCA grows into armor, weaponry. Shields
and attacks. Sound an echo cousin to the Jaguar
spun against a parked van which sounds
like a box of books tumbling in a moving truck
as if a box of books wasn’t scary enough.
It’s as if there were still another war
but the most up-to-date globe can’t tell us
where. We outpace cartography, we are
what we make or what is made of us,
bristling like spit in a valve. Imaginary cornet,
imaginary player, imaginary agents
of insurance. See how those on the billboard
appear to be without foreheads or noses—
It’s eerie, but this is what insurance agents
are supposed to look like. While you think
of what to say, another airplane makes
another little tear in the sky. What’s there
to do in a place once you’ve already left
but find yourself still there? Why do I like
the songs that break apart to lively violins
harmonizing death, the shadow of liquor,
the indefatigable river carrying us off
not losing us yet we are loosed. Here’s a drama
perhaps minor tragedy, here’s a fly copulating
with another fly, here’s a hearing we can’t, a meal
made of mush, ingredients: mush and MSG,
here a streak made in the dust on the floor
in the shape of a sliver of the moon
and a door opening, what next comes
is not obvious though history likes to say
what was inevitable, to look good on television
and not be reduced to a woman crushing
her hat black in one hand. The man watching.
This is the world we were making all along.
Moving under slick, barely protective skins.
Talking into waves. The bell waist of the wine glass
skewering the eye under the lamp, one bulb
working, the last bulb in the ashtray
and in filling over and over the ashtray
continues to be a gift. Instructions are
never decoded. Either not enough or
too much is said of the drive home from
the funeral. Down in the willow garden—
This place here grows without our thumbs
and grows wild with. And now to anthrax
says the newscaster. In the equation real + ism=
realism, ism is the quality that reduces copious
scope the way speech creates distance
like the way the universe expanding creates
a lot more space to traverse but talking anyway
is a gesture of faith, as when some inspired
soul whispers into the gallery and takes a Chagall.
When the ransom note comes,
I am sentimental as a stone
but a stone in one of those movies
where the stone finds its way.
Death is my snow leopard
but as in the myth of the snow leopard
that turns against its master.
Master is invented. Snow leopards
exist, finely loping just the way one she
ago brings a cake cut in the shape of a cross
into the bar. And the whole time,
someone has taken a piece of art,
and kept it, saying Until there is peace,
this will not be in the world. Alissa said
the joke in Holland was that polaroids
would appear each day
with the painting propped up with a paper
displaying the date. One by one
every piece of art begins to disappear,
brick by brick, stone by stone,
only the reception desks are left. Then, films
go missing, the world grows devoid of color
and sound. Crucifixes, candelabras, scimitars,
piano benches lonely and lonelier, flags.
Maps. Scientific tests, minor chords, firing
mechanisms. That button, this. By twos,
file cabinets empty, plastic roses wilt,
graffiti vanishes. The trunk of a tree
growing out of a sidewalk recedes.
Billboards cease proclaiming, monochromatic
airplanes unsure of their tribe refuse
to take off. Flashing lights, desk lamps,
labels on bottles. Ashtrays, volume knobs
are turned down then plucked. Keys.
Venetian blinds, circulars. First
the brand names, then the matter contained.
Contraptions try to become still, fearful. Font,
fount, funding. Something yearning
in the static. The mouths hold onto breath,
trying to taste it. It is nearly too much,
——to evoke the magnitude of vanishing. A series
the cartons of milk crowd out the word milk
with the lost and then lose all, the liquid
sucked up by the earth! to say nothing of
construction, madding, batting, strafing,
chafing, das ding, ineptitude, platitude,
collaptitude, inexact change, mange, epitaphs,
pictographs, nature preserves, plums,
ectoplasm, serial numbers, disinfectants,
the amount of string and the tensile strength
you’d need just to hold the already-passing world
together for only an instant, it’s impossible
and yet each day at each second in our illusion
of time someone takes a step or takes a step back
or glances or sinks further into themselves.
We have taken everything back, the world
all along we were making which came to this.
The frontier void and formless. The shadows
where we wait are cool and patient.
The transformatives are held on our tongue tips
like corrals for the panoramic maybe—
We will vanish soon.
But not before we open our mouths.
Our breath is held just another second,
another, waiting for the right instant
to release all that we hold within us.
Until we can let all fashioned by our dreams
appear. Each is filled to nearly bursting,
each alike and vastly different in wish.
This world we can yet make.
Even the dust will glow.
Even a good-bye kiss will be lodged
in the record. Something about metal
gentled, there remain shrieks of pain
but mercy will have hands.
Each will be themselves, will feel slightly
above rudimentary physics, love unsequestered.
Now. It will really be something.
We are tense, nearly blossoming with restraint.
We are nearly ready.
Marc McKee received his MFA from the University of Houston and his PhD from the University of Missouri in Columbia, where he lives with his wife, Camellia Cosgray. Recent work appears in The Minnesota Review, Barn Owl Review, Copper Nickel and New South and is forthcoming from Artifice, Pebble Lake Review, and The Journal. He is the author of a chapbook, What Apocalypse?, from New Michigan Press, and a full-length collection, Fuse, which is forthcoming from Black Lawrence Press in 2011.
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