3 Pretty Things
i woke up in a wheelbarrow once.
i was somehow sleeping on
my stomach in the motherfucker.
when i awoke, i was staring at a
pool of dried blood that had come
out of my face. amazingly enough,
my face was no less pretty, or
any more dignified after the fact.
my wife is eleven years younger than me.
when i lost my virginity to both sex and drugs,
she was three.
that makes me feel like a fuckin' creep.
when i explained my feelings of dirty old man-ness to her,
all she said was "yr makin' my pussy wet."
god, i love her.
reading the paper
hurts my brain so damned much, i
could end up in it
Filling in the Blue
which way are you going, i'll walk you there
until the bruised earth wakes again
to compete with things fixed by those in flux
breathing glances from static and space
exhaling provocation, star by star
when the years were stretched for miles out
we darlingly loaded our pockets with metal wishes
bound all to their shrapnels and shushed
to the loitering succor we palmed
deep within the black of linted linings
winks her cold-softened core of polished shell
conspiring empire in my organs
bearing the standards of ocean
by the trembling weight of a raindrop
or kisses on the neck, at the base of the hairline
to lay us meekly under those waves
inking sight out of our minds
crayoning the bluest sleep where they see
leaving the laminate layers of memory sedentary
soon, there's a sheen of wet on everything
Isaac Seal is an odd one, but at the root of it, a good egg. He has been published in a few places (though not nearly as many as he's attempted to be) such as Eviscerator Heaven, Calliope Nerve, Counterexample Poetics. In real life, he's a professional chef of the almost famous variety. He loves food, and words, and music. He currently resides in Sacramento, California, but wants to move back to the Midwest.
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