I must (I said)
apologize. My wife showed
my poems, as I
understand it, to
your mother, who
was impressed that someone
would engineer
words beyond
book-club level,
and thought they would have
a salutary effect
on you in your
basement (or attic?), condemned
without trial by
meritocracy, playing games.
She worries about
you. It was not
my idea to afflict
you with extra pressure.
And he: This manic
weaving back and forth
of my torso
relates less to you
than to my being
even briefly torn
from the constant
building and destruction
of worlds you
wouldn’t understand, from evil
foes and savage
allies. Futile
interviews afford
at least a will-
of-the-wisp, but
other
scripts (like
yours) confine me in a room
smaller than mine
and reeking of the tomb.
Frederick
Pollack
Author
of two book-length narrative poems, The Adventure (Story Line Press, 1986; to
be reissued by Red Hen Press) and Happiness (Story Line Press, 1998), and two
collections, A Poverty of Words (Prolific Press, 2015) and Landscape with
Mutant (Smokestack Books, UK, 2018). In print, Pollack’s work has appeared in Hudson
Review, Salmagundi, Poetry Salzburg Review, Manhattan Review, Skidrow
Penthouse, Main Street Rag, Miramar, Chicago Quarterly Review, The Fish
Anthology (Ireland), Poetry Quarterly Review, Magma (UK), Neon (UK), Orbis
(UK), Armarolla, December, and elsewhere. Online, his poems have appeared in Big
Bridge, Diagram, BlazeVox, Mudlark, Occupoetry, Faircloth Review, Triggerfish, Big Pond Rumours (Canada), Misfit, OffCourse, Ariel
Chart (2019) and elsewhere.
some in-laws need to be thrown out of a plane without a parachute.
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