Issue #2: Poetry
I’ve been to Morocco and Tunisia.
My mother breastfed me until Niagara Falls
at age two. Sorry I missed your letter
addressed to the Knoxville Hilton, but I was in
Germany, watching soccer in Cologne, looking
at the churches. I have never been west
of the Mississippi. I have never been
south of the peanut stand on 41st Street.
But I loved Paris and Prague and you, yes you
even when you went abroad for four months,
even when I slept on a roof in Brooklyn
in the arms of an Icelandic beauty who fed me
light and Philip Glass. I don’t believe in God,
I believe in India with its one billion mouths
and four billion arms. I believe in Samsonite
and old media. I believe every word
of the journal you sent me, every page blank
except for your proclamation on the spine.
You sleep with your lies and I’ll sleep with mine.