AMAUD JAMAUL JOHNSON
Pacman
These red-blooded Americans.
That look of disappointment
Weekly poems, selected by the editors. Featuring new work as well as poems from our rich archives.
These red-blooded Americans.
That look of disappointment
I’m lost in time, in waves of light seizing the prints, watching my own death before I existed;
I speak to him, sometimes, like a will against abstraction.
I paint my face and neck until I am wholly that
and walk deeper into the sea.
Do not attempt to go under. Do not attempt to go back / wards.
he says / I need to let him in (the Lord)
and how // does / here // appear / to there
Bent, I tiptoe down the stairs, down the dirt road
Like a vein of hard coal, it was the strike
but I am afraid the eagles have their own theories of joy
Dark Matter. / It can’t be seen. It holds us together.