Your X-Rays Have Just Come Back from the Lab and We Think We Know What Your Problem Is
Indigent,
shimmering, the pieces of reality that I like best are the ones that fit
together so finely—minutes rubbing into hours unto days funneling themselves
(aghast!) into years—that it feels like your whole life is a déjà vu,
pervasive, splatters of consciousness at every edge and the accretion shards of sight and motion and sound, lived out
whole.
Nothing of the Month Club
Summer.
We switched the colors in our town’s only traffic light
to blue, pink and purple. Lo-card country-grade acid. A sun-soaked caramel
apple, festering, steady the hour settles on my coffin’s cover. Loving freely and boring easily, I changed my phone number
to CALIFORNIA. (The stupid screen’s still cracked, the screen’s always cracked.)
Death is the one and only law with no flaw. Dust into dust. Don’t call me.
Don’t text.
Nothing of the Month Club
Studying the bones in a blade of grass, squirms in a cube of ice, I’ve finally begun the major work necessary to finish my novella I’m a Man of Few Words, None of Them About Myself. I’ve resigned myself to the cold storage world of America, everhard. I’ve committed myself to a constant erection of the heart, evertaut.
Living
in the moment before dying into the past, living in the moment before dying
into the past, living in the moments.
To order copies of Nothing of the Month Club by Jeff Alessandrelli, via Broken Sleep Books, click here.
Alessandrelli always captures his own intrigue. His work gives us the gift of curiosity.
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