h o m e........
p a s t   i s s u e s....
s u b m i s s i o n s....
l i n k s

 

 

.........
NATE PRITTS



.............
The Existing Curriculum is Incoherent


My eyes are some kind of waiting 
for the sun to go down because this squinting
destroys the sidewalk into butterfly
& maybe Sunday was a day worth reliving.
In detail. Phantom images talk whispers
through my today & my mind
is an acute ache since you’re empty
alone with all those people who aren’t me.
I hope that what I’m saying feels lonely.
There are several other things I could say
after the things that I already said
& if I said them in candlelight you might believe.
Mornings are full of birds I could name
if you’d let me but the question pending
is if you can murder the future & keep on living.

The problem is that I can’t write every poem
that happens though I’m trying. If I try
to remember why I’m so sad in this simple todaylight,
I have charts indicating it has to do with my fingers
pushing into the freckles on your shoulders
in a previous timeframe. The skyscape
is a misunderstanding the light kept on making.
The goals & objectives I kneel to are mistakes
from a certain point of view. Time
is standing still though the flowers keep screaming
about how beautiful they are.
There are competing fields of music & I don’t know
what to sing along to anymore. Green is a color
I can’t not have feelings on the subject of.
I should have been better prepared for this moment.






...........
YOU ARE THE CONFUSING IDENTITY I WRITE FOR


You are the first line of this poem. 
You are an opening gambit,
perplexity, a variable concept of relativity
space and time
in which this poem (you) exists.
This poem exists to be you. You, the woman I write for.
You're a man?
That's a wig? You are a man in a wig and, yes!
you are here! in this poem.
You are a conundrum and sparkling wine,
a Gewurztraminer or
cider with bubbles and no booze.

They say art enlightens.
Between you and me?
It might as well be a sleep mask.
Light rents space for its morning stretch.
This poem asked me to let out its seams.
You are the first and second lines of the final stanza and
you know why?
I'm hungry.
I'll always treasure our moments together.
Reader, if you were a seam, I'd take you out anywhere.





............... ANOTHER LAST LETTER TO YOU



Watch me watch this go up in flames.
You let me throw the whole thing away
or maybe you knew just when to let go.
I kept closing my teeth on each of my problems.
There were stars shining bright in the winter,
light tangled up in the branches. I told you
everything around me was spinning
so you’d try to help hold me together.
I made the whole thing into a poem,
pretended not to notice your sadness.
Then it was summer for almost a decade.
I’ve done brand new things I’m not proud of.
Remember when you asked me to kiss you?
I was so damn pleased with my anger,
these blue blue eyes unblinking.
I never even stopped to inquire.
Yes, I know that you had your reasons.
I know I gave you plenty of reasons.
But then I wrote them all away. So I said:
don’t ask me who she was because it doesn’t matter.
I said I’ll never know what she felt.
Now you’re lodged in my everyday, this same town
that wrecked us. So here’s another poem about you.
This is the last time you’ll have to hear it.
Remember when I said it was autumn? You said
you thought it looked more like the fall. Goddamn,
I wish that you didn’t matter. I was counting down
& waiting for blast off. There were lots of people
lost along the way. I wrote your name
right out of the poem. I’d like to tell you things
will get better. I’d tell you that you matter because
you mattered to me. Maybe I should write you a letter.
I’d type that the seasons are turning into goodbyes
I can live through. I’d say I’m living right now
more than ever, but I’m afraid. You’ve probably
already forgotten. I don’t think anybody is ever forgiven.
Nate Pritts is the author of five books of poetry, most recently Sweet Nothing. He is the founder & principal editor of H_NGM_N, an online journal & small press. Find him online at www.natepritts.com.











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