Parallax Disguised As Endless Disappointment 

Corey Van Landingham

Some days I am living in a country that kisses women
before it kills them. Some days it builds them a home

                of cloth bandages and tells them to stand on their heads.
                                        The ones who fall fall out of the wound that is

                         home, which is the one dank place they can never
                                                    get back to. Some days the sun looks so huge

I duck for cover. I buy large, black tarps to drape
over my head. I reflect every stranger's face.

                What they want. My forehead shines Sandwich,
                                        shines Free gas for a year. A little violence to remind

                         how real this all isn't?
Some days I am living with
                                                    a weather that never liked its own name. It acts out

against my tree house windows. I fall into a rain
barrel which is really just old weather and

                isn't too keen on its backwater origins either.
                                        Some days men look at me, and some times

                         they don't. Other times all the little girls
                                                    on the pedestrian bridge are carrying wands like

machetes and are the color of old bathwater.
The ocean is under disguise as acid-washed jeans.

                The fish are rusty safety pins holding up the sagging
                                        waist. When they try to touch each other, they open  

                         yet another wound. Infection. Seaweed is a dirty
                                                    bandage, thus the house one can't return to.

Pin-pricks, the kiss I never wanted. I am the strange loop
siphoning the saltwater through a crazy straw.

                Watering the garden so that nothing will grow back.
                                        Only the tamped-down spoons. The spoons taken to

                         the persimmon taken to my mouth. Some days
                                                    all the old spoons taste faintly of silver.

I tell myself everything in this wish-cloud is mine.
Some days that helps like hair of the dog, myth

                to make one more miserable. Some days the women
                                        cut my hair so short it feels like it might bleed.

                         This is an airspace for all the monologues
                                                    worth flying away from. Some days coffee seems

ridiculous and some days it feels like apotheosis.