Issue Two


For Mishka and Stuart Hoosen-Lewis

Old friend, this is goodbye. I’m journeying

once again into the wilderness, but this time

without you. I promise you that I won’t think

of you every step of the way as I did before. 

I promise you that there’ll be no declarations

of love this time around. You’re so obsessed

with the lens, with the camera. You’re in love

with everybody, that’s your kind of education,

your kind of hardworking-philosophy. You 

say that you love her, so love her like family, 

your mother. One word from you, one false alarm,

changed everything about our past. Old friend, 

so, this is goodbye. This time next year you’ll be

married, and I’ll never hear from you again. 

I pray that you’ll have poetry in your life, stories,

narratives, concepts, reminders of concepts, life

in perspective, in context, sipping on Saint 

America’s supernatural provision, and words take

on a life of their own. Let your wife shop for 

clothes, and when she’s pregnant let her shop for

maternity-wear, your hands will drift across 

the waterfall of her dark hair. The path you have 

to go is ecstasy, touch her restless soul, and then

let her touch yours, wonder boy, genius boy,  

You’re Zambia, Burkina Faso, Ghana, and the 

Ivory Coast. You only win when you hear her talk

in her sleep. There’s a shore she has to reach to

get to you, whenever you close your eyes. Your

sea is beautiful this time of year, the origin of 

your universe, baby galaxies are at rest, space 

is expanding back into time closer, closer. 

It contracts to a certain point, and returns to time, 

energy and matter. The flesh is just the absolute 

beginning of your life, your love’s tragedy, 

illustrations of science.You will be most thorough 

when it comes to your love. I was all wrong for you 

from the start, could never make you happy, my emotional

damages would have become your emotional 

damages, at night I sleep with Alba at my side, and

you sleep like the gospel, the spiritual racing 

through all of your nocturnal molecules holding 

the knock, search and obey through faith and action, 

my old love. Faith is risk not yet seen, a standing

conviction of things not seen. I was saved through

your grace, the mask that you use, the taste of 

red, red wine. You did not choose me after all. 

I have Robert Lowell, Paris, and all this madness war. 


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