Over Night

In the middle of the night, two magazines came alive, the new elimae and diode. Me being awake, I read what I could. Here's what I remember taking.

Waiting for Inspiration Howie Good

Flat, empty country. The blue smoke of evening. You glance down the tracks both ways and then resume pacing, in the distance only a woman with shaved eyebrows.

The next is part of an adventure poem by Jason Bredle, who always entertains. I might have latched onto this one because of regionalism, or because every Boston team blew it in the playoffs last night, or both. Either way, I took it.

from Elegy for Roger Prynne
by Jason Bredle

until finally one afternoon I washed up in Boston harbor,
near the aquarium,
which I didn’t visit because
I’d spent so much time in the sea with all its dazzling creatures,
so I visited the place where that sitcom bar is,
which is real touristy,
and ate fried potatoes near a breakdance troupe
and cleaned myself up a little
because I’d been near death at sea for the past several weeks,
and slept for a long time after that,
waking up refreshed later which was good
because there was so much to see and do in Boston!
I’m kidding, there wasn’t,
but I was thrown out of Grolier’s after browsing
for only a few minutes, which,
apparently the mean woman
who works at or owns this bookstore doesn’t like,
that is, browsing or browsers or lovers of poetry,
though she said she was quixotic, which makes no sense
because she was black-hearted and angry
like the angry, black nights I spent at sea,
surrounded by its dazzling creatures,
sometimes riding upon them
but sometimes terrified of them as well,
like when the moon is full and sharks are circling you,
and you’d think that turbulent waters would be terrifying,
and they are, but just as awful are those nights of the full moon,
when creatures are circling you,
and the sea is quiet,
and those are the nights that you just close your eyes and cry,
close your eyes and pray that it will all end soon.