Killing, riding I & IIBy Shya Scanlon
February 05, 2010
This like we, likely, is this is, undo. Take this out not far but take it widely, so it sits beside us. It should serve as something undid, or else, dust. I hurry to touch it. I hurry to peel me up, and finger, and hurry to hand it over as something, something over more than, breaks from over what, from that broken smoothness. This sums us up. This is that knuckle we said would carry things into a broad, clear brightness, and bend and watch them burn.
We weren’t quite there yet but you knew to look behind us, and this seemed to matter. What did you see? Something pressed, is pressing, will not let comfort strip and enter us, bend us inward. Still, I took you forward and a leaning overtook me. Another kind of expectation. You said put it down and I did, but within seconds I was not the same and you noticed, changed your mind, and entered something I did not recognize yet made a name for, and forgot.
I just love these two poems to pieces, Shya. Killing, riding. Hell yeah. Anytime.
[…] are these poems […]
The subway is one of my favorite things about NY. Love the way you invoke it and the snapshots I glean.
[…] written with Kelly Haramis, appeared in Artifice, issue #1. Shya Scanlon is a Featured Poetry Author this week (ending on Sunday) at The Nervous Breakdown. His self-interview appears there, too. And […]