One can get
used to anything in this climate. The floods came early. Rivulets of snow flushed down through the lower homes. The wolves loped back to the Serbs. Nothing comes across as foreign as that look I get each time I open my mouth. But, like I said... And I give it back, cracking everyone up, losing our wits. Then we smoke each other's cigarettes, laugh some more and duck in for a raki. It picks me up. Takes me where all my voices live and we start dancing. We're really texting, but I can really move, really move, I can really dance. Like it matters.
time yet. And when it was, they said I was too late. They didn’t have the details, even though I phoned ahead. Texted. I emailed. But when I asked, someone said Didn’t you hear? I knew it was too soon to let them have it, so I waited. Of course I’m too young for this, sweeping a lifetime of wonderment, knocking on doors, being told I’m too early or too late. It’s the same message, Go away. So, I go in. All of you are there.
This box wine is
the death of me. Each night, sitting naked in front of the mirror, shouting until I’m delirious. Each morning, it takes the two of us to pull the slivers of glass out of my knuckles and gums. The sludge I drink for coffee and my open window above the burning plastics barrel cure everything. But, as many times as the one on this side of the mirror has run the bladder of this demon box down 6 flights to the burn barrel, the one on the other side retrieves it not wholey empty and admonishes me as if I was contaminating the street with a library of bad poetry
CRAIG CZURY lives in northern Italy, where he conducts his Poem Fusion Poetry Project at the Instituto Galileo Galilei secondary science school in Crema, Lombardia. His latest book is Fifteen Stones (NYQ Books), prose poems written from Chile, Italy, Lithuania, and a rehabbed schoolhouse in NE Pennsylvania.