ALLIGATOR AND MAN, SWORD AND SWALLOWER
Confidence in the future is waning. The moon tries to pull me out.
Around my ankles, the jaws of an alligator, a gentle bite. The teeth
around the skin form a gate to a small portal. I stretch for the
moon but there’s no grass, no weed, no root—no hold. I swallow
the moon. The alligator swallows me, whole, and returns to the
wild. When it sleeps, I am removed from its mouth by myself like a
sideshow demonstration staged for the nocturnal animals, for the
absence of light. And when I feel more teeth, and more teeth, at
my skin, my sideshow is endless, it’s hard to worry. I am both
sword and swallower. Both in- and outside of the alligator.
DRIFTING LIKE SPIRITS PART 2
I dream of away. Far away or close away.
My passport lapsed. Expired years ago.
You knew that. On tests I always guessed true
because I wanted something. Something veiled
in the back of my mind. Let go of the earth.
The grass. Lose track of the duration of your sleep.
Lose track of if you sleep. Why won’t you tell us?
I open the bag and lay out the things I’ve brought
in order of size on the bed. Never read faces.
Why won’t you show us? I’ve said this before, but
we wake up really far away from home.
The house depreciates. I would be more than willing
to have an idea. I tilt my head. There’s a man in space.
He tries to roll dice. He can’t win. He can’t lose.
David Wojciechowski lives and dies in Syracuse, NY. His first book, Dreams I Never Told You & Letters I Never Sent, was released by Gold Wake Press. He can be found at davidwojo.com and on Twitter @MrWojoRising.