Rhapsody. Mispronunciations. What is it about childhood that affects us. A plane homing in. The denunciation, the informant. Keep it close. The razzle dazzle. The dark authorial voice. Nose up. Arrow. Demolition, defrocked, demilitarized, Frankensteined. Lever up the shiny stuff past 10 oâclock. Entrance grants sanctity. Duende, demarcation. And the living doesnât portrait as well as you might think. D so close to the cusp. The confusion, the paradox. Devotion. The evidence against us. We fly our own way, though living has its possibilities. Desolitude. Desegregation of souls. Poor Pythagoras, except for your theorem, mostly lost. The antipathy, the feint. Appropriation of grief something natural here. Iâm drawn to it like wings to light. Sharp percolations. Positive identification. Lifted windows like lifted skirts, the lock, stock, and barrel. The blessings are mixed. In bloom, call girls are asking you for paper to write it all down. We are forever writing with our bodies. I can make sense of it. Danger a mother lode. The grandiloquent, the dry eye, the seemings ripped, the fusion confused, the cheerful bruise, antagonism, desire
All that negativity. D for prose. The letter I will never write. Eventually D knocks, we want nothing to do with it. The living are stuck with the living, dead to the dead. Now face the other. The evil wicks away (hardly at all). Bad fabric? D in the darkness D in the light. For words that begin with D in other languages. Where maybe D doesnât exist at all. Proto chango. Sediment, siding. The unilateral nature of anything, which is complete, utter denial. Blankets. Immeasurability that can be measured. Infinitely. Underestimation, priceless. The embitterment, pure power. Prolixity on time. Lift off happened hours ago, minutes ago, now, futurity. The future full of maturity. Imminence. An image dismantled. Immense forgetfulness. We not that important and of the utmost, still proving our DNA. Prowling around. The idea to hold off. To aggress. Pursue. Weâve been underpinned, lifebloods of silence. We do not always choose the things we need to do. Alluvial, bright
Yet bury me in time for dinner. Traditional measurements of time that I so desperately need. Donât get me wrong, I exist within the parameters. There are two ways at least this can go. You fill in the rest; itâs a constant revision. The decisions we make, if weâre lucky, are our own. Itâs an interesting conceit. The versus, the verisimilitude are remarkable. Enough is enough. No resurrection except in hushes, disbelief. Welcome to our planet. Please buckle in. The iridescent flicker of wings. What season. Monarchs clinging. Our dues. No fleeing the outpost before too late.
I need the ghost word. Leaf prints in cement. Something there, weaving. And the bruisings. The under sea level. Levees, pumps, dams. Who will we find above the gravestone, waiting. To survive is the only prerequisite, the final exam. I cannot complain. Not a matter of when, but how. How dapper. Delinquent. A small intimate concert at 8 p.m. Boisterous hummings coming clear. Compass points, libations, love sketched in pencil; itâs emphatic! Clusters of photographs like strophes, bundlings of nerves, package deal. Is it erratic to write in one long perfect line so we feel all evening gown? Desire in fields, folds. The field notes say: each section of this is domestic, a magnet. A freezer full of good oaths, a bedtime story. Did you tell it? Did it find its lucky day?
Caketrain is a literary journal and press based in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Our interest is in bringing you, reader, the very best in contemporary creative writing, full stop. Our goals are for each issue of our journal to submerge you in a birthing tank for gelatinous language monsters, young masses of tentacular foci undulating as directed (in all, at once) by our eclectic stable of contributors; for each new book we publish to seduce and ensnare you, sometimes intangibly, always undeniably; and for you, reader, to be able to draw at least one passage from our banks that prods your mind with such precision and power that it feels as if it was written for your eyes alone. To wit and to whet, here is a snippet, a slight nip of our delicious lit mix:
