From Four Stories

I was trying to remember a name—Maya Deren
and then I remembered it

the sea shrank, the green door shrank,
and so did the Russian Empire

the lifers canvassed
in the more depressed regions of the dream,

fated to gnaw on choruses
in a zone of perishable feelings


*


we drew from the well of our irritation,
masked and unemployable

for fourteen years, unmarried,
he painted Coca-Cola bottles for tourists

the undefeated streak hung overhead
like a single hellish lightbulb

he was tired of bleeding on the floors
of community centers and National Guard armories


*


we weathered sporadic shifts
in time and subject

drank spilled margarita mixer
from the cracks of our work history

the goonish whooping
of the demolition derby band persisted

the vanquished chief’s profile
glowing like an electric grail


*


you excused yourself
from the portrait sitting

an 8th grade horse girl
left holding the world’s severed ear

the campaign buttons
made a tambourine of your safety vest

now you’ve been renewed
for your 100th season


*


often a man of God pouts
in waist-high grass

a sudden key change sweats
and twitches his handle

things are revealed to him simultaneously,
so he must quickly choose which to remember

like grasping at windswept dollars
in a county fair money chamber


*


the president recalled feeding the feral child
cheerios from the palm of his hand

said a man may find himself living through times
in which gracelessness is an asset

the catcher’s face tilted downward,
mercifully benched

this was the one universe
he’d been allotted


*


it is good to day drink with the third shift nurses,
good to hear their stories

and your own voice in the corner of the booth
saying, “God and his queer reasons…”

the occasional lights of those no-name
Louisiana towns on the drive to Dallas

what if you broke down
and stayed down forever?


*


commerce knits
a sorrowful highlight reel

a tape of hypnotism instructions
overnighted to the Keys

Sarah pointed toward ditches
of rotting citrus

all summer
we were not allowed to die


*


you once had an apartment
that was missing a wall

you would wake up, snow melting
into your lacrosse hoodie

now that you can afford to build
a replica you no longer wish to

there are so many people
and they’re all looking up


*


a prophecy is a dreary thing, washed out and flapping
afterward, walking home from the stadium,

your giant foam finger pointing the way to the center
of the earth, the snow gets in your shoes

night falls on the blank faces of dummies left behind the wheels
of rented excavators, gathers itself down in the half-dug holes

this is not the house we agreed to,
these are not the right trees at all




____
Joshua Johnston lives in Franklin, Kentucky.