my remains. They are as follows: all my clothes,
my harmonica, my body, letters to my enemies.
The dictionary says you can refer to everyone
who will be alive in the future as prosperity so
Dear Prosperity, I used to live in the future,
too, but I fear the past is a brushfire
and I am a prairie. Now that I have what I asked for
I see I should have been more specific.
REMEMBER YOUR FUTURE
True: time travel is tricky, but backwards
is easier than forwards because at least you know
the way. In my memory it is always autumnal
and my weight approximately seven stones. Birds
fly in droves, dervishes to their bird god
on their way to Florida, and in their memories
it seems always a season for leaving. I watch them
hover above the temple where the police
officer stands guard each Sabbath. I watch them
while I listen to someone tell me about weddings
where he comes from, how the groom must choose
his bride blindfolded, from among her friends and
sisters, feeling their bodies one by one down the line,
checking for familiars. When I say choose I mean
remember. When I say remember I can’t forget
Konstantin, how he asked to carry my purse
through the arboretum in July and let me know
his mother is widowed in Kiev, though his father
is still alive. As far as he knows. As far as he can throw
a stone. When I time travel, I go to Oregon and skip
stones with the boyfriend I left for a map, the sister
who may one day stand in line at my wedding
to be caressed by the blind. True: when the seasons
change, I get like this. It is a little like gymnastics
and a little like a pelvic examination:
uncomfortable, routine, and sometimes
my life is at stake. I used to have a friend
who got like this too, someone to go to yoga
with at the end of the world, but then
she found god and alternative methods
of contraception and now we speak
in halting cadence, like women
from different tribes, separated
by a river, a river filled with stones,
a river you could only get to if you
were from Kansas and thought you could fly
around the waistline of the world,
until you crashed somewhere
in the Pacific, never to be found.
I feel autumnal tonight. Let’s go
to the future, where our bird god
lives, and ask for stronger wings.
WANT AD FROM THE FUTURE
I just realized I am out of currency, food, and time.
I am, how do you say, bereft of necessity.
Not only you were at that party, but your wife
was dressed like a board game and she spoke
to me of every thing that matters not at all.
Want ad from the future: we are seeking
anonymity. Birds came. They told me
I would be more happier without a face.
I said but what about these enemies.
The birds said even with no face
your enemies will know you
by your body. I said let us
get rid of it then. I am,
how do you say, not having
a body anymore. Hello
from the future, where
we are seeking reasons
to keep our clothes on.
Except me. I have no shoulders.
I fed them to this dingo.
I’VE WRITTEN ALL OVER THIS IN HOPES YOU CAN READ IT
Welcome to sparkly tomorrowland.
We have prepared this room for your arrival.
We hope you like the view.
We hope you like the Nile.
Birds came; they told us a mournful
cadence and a flustered two-step
is your kind of Friday night and
we said we’d never seen
this kind of trembling before.
Blame the colonizers, the birds
said, before flying off to Oaxaca,
never to be seen again. Yes,
there are people here, but only if you
want there to be people
here. We can cater. Our people
are puppets and our puppets
are incredibly lifelike, like people.
Most of our staff will not bother you,
but anyone who does we guarantee
will be hot, and covered in spring grasses.
No regrets. And no hope either.
We pride ourselves on this:
somewhere, it is already tomorrow.
DISPATCH FROM THE FUTURE
In the future, we pay our debts with blood.
Always more where that came from.
And the white noise sounds like sun.
Lily,
my harmonica, my body, letters to my enemies.
The dictionary says you can refer to everyone
who will be alive in the future as prosperity so
Dear Prosperity, I used to live in the future,
too, but I fear the past is a brushfire
and I am a prairie. Now that I have what I asked for
I see I should have been more specific.
REMEMBER YOUR FUTURE
True: time travel is tricky, but backwards
is easier than forwards because at least you know
the way. In my memory it is always autumnal
and my weight approximately seven stones. Birds
fly in droves, dervishes to their bird god
on their way to Florida, and in their memories
it seems always a season for leaving. I watch them
hover above the temple where the police
officer stands guard each Sabbath. I watch them
while I listen to someone tell me about weddings
where he comes from, how the groom must choose
his bride blindfolded, from among her friends and
sisters, feeling their bodies one by one down the line,
checking for familiars. When I say choose I mean
remember. When I say remember I can’t forget
Konstantin, how he asked to carry my purse
through the arboretum in July and let me know
his mother is widowed in Kiev, though his father
is still alive. As far as he knows. As far as he can throw
a stone. When I time travel, I go to Oregon and skip
stones with the boyfriend I left for a map, the sister
who may one day stand in line at my wedding
to be caressed by the blind. True: when the seasons
change, I get like this. It is a little like gymnastics
and a little like a pelvic examination:
uncomfortable, routine, and sometimes
my life is at stake. I used to have a friend
who got like this too, someone to go to yoga
with at the end of the world, but then
she found god and alternative methods
of contraception and now we speak
in halting cadence, like women
from different tribes, separated
by a river, a river filled with stones,
a river you could only get to if you
were from Kansas and thought you could fly
around the waistline of the world,
until you crashed somewhere
in the Pacific, never to be found.
I feel autumnal tonight. Let’s go
to the future, where our bird god
lives, and ask for stronger wings.
WANT AD FROM THE FUTURE
I just realized I am out of currency, food, and time.
I am, how do you say, bereft of necessity.
Not only you were at that party, but your wife
was dressed like a board game and she spoke
to me of every thing that matters not at all.
Want ad from the future: we are seeking
anonymity. Birds came. They told me
I would be more happier without a face.
I said but what about these enemies.
The birds said even with no face
your enemies will know you
by your body. I said let us
get rid of it then. I am,
how do you say, not having
a body anymore. Hello
from the future, where
we are seeking reasons
to keep our clothes on.
Except me. I have no shoulders.
I fed them to this dingo.
I’VE WRITTEN ALL OVER THIS IN HOPES YOU CAN READ IT
Welcome to sparkly tomorrowland.
We have prepared this room for your arrival.
We hope you like the view.
We hope you like the Nile.
Birds came; they told us a mournful
cadence and a flustered two-step
is your kind of Friday night and
we said we’d never seen
this kind of trembling before.
Blame the colonizers, the birds
said, before flying off to Oaxaca,
never to be seen again. Yes,
there are people here, but only if you
want there to be people
here. We can cater. Our people
are puppets and our puppets
are incredibly lifelike, like people.
Most of our staff will not bother you,
but anyone who does we guarantee
will be hot, and covered in spring grasses.
No regrets. And no hope either.
We pride ourselves on this:
somewhere, it is already tomorrow.
DISPATCH FROM THE FUTURE
In the future, we pay our debts with blood.
Always more where that came from.
And the white noise sounds like sun.
Lily,
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