I know why I care about your final resting place. I’ve never found one suitable on this earth. I’m estranged from your impulses, and I’ve envious of your solitude. All the words in the world don’t soothe me.
What was last night’s dream is today’s fuzzy imperative. I’m a warrior that way. I don’t allow myself the clear narrative, the happy birth, the being late for an appointment or pickup that might mark me a man of this century.
What I predicted was a song, the music of good labor. I wait for minutes and seconds. I breathe the air.
The subject itself ushers in a lifetime of mediation. Who, rightfully, could rage on this capital? What is the disaster?
Here is where a part of my life becomes more blushed than the whole. Here are so many parts I kept inside until the whistle of the kettle.
I would love to laugh in kinship and queer the listening. It would be rich to rush the throat closed with bindings. Everything I notice, however, suggests we hike the medium point.
What You Will Become
When my heart grows great bushes, I worry I will worry about whether you will be able to march down the street and carry the flag of your resistance. I can’t be the guide of your motion. The oil knows nothing, like our bodies thrumming in this heat, our scars the last evidence of this planet.
Thomas Cook is an Editor and Publisher of Tammy. He lives in Los Angeles, CA and Galesburg, IL. His nonfiction has recently appeared or is forthcoming in Eastern Iowa Review, New World Writing, Rappahannock Review, and The Dead Mule: School of Southern Literature.