by Josh Lipson
She clasps a starfish to her breast, and the last of me’s scooped out –paté on rusks– for a year or two of mad contractions and sweet phenethylamine blank
crowned with car door and perhaps some kind of literal frontispiece –a composite image– a palanquin of cedar beams peeled open in the consciousness won’t shut–
but Shiva blow intoning CHOWDAHEAD! thereby:
erase messages, derealize pixels, fall through attic floor, and thresh the sky open
and the flinty steppe geometry bloom
and new affections be considered for granite
and books out of Hilbert space hit you on the way down
and cities appear out of abstraction
and union hum
[Josh Lipson is a student of history, language, and the mind based in Virginia, by way of New Jersey, Cambridge, Jerusalem, Istanbul, and San Francisco. His work has been featured in Obra/Artifact,Angel City Review, Homonym Journal, The Meadow, Briars Lit, and Burning House Press, and is forthcoming in Petrichor and The Bookends Review.]
PØST 