But it isn’t, so we aren’t ~ Matthew Kosinski

Drinking cold fruit juice out of tall, thin glasses – we bought them (the glasses) at the thrift store in Elizabeth – sweet mango flesh on her face and hands and wrists – the kitchen thick with burnt-butter smoke and the box fan whirlingwhirlingwhirling on the trashcan near the open window – Chuck’s silvery, hot blister bubbling on the back of his hand – a cast-iron skillet mishap – lovingly rounded slabs of vegan country fried steak on paper Christmas plates – in March, no less – a steady and sustained mist hissing against the window screen – Nicole on the floor and infatuated with a Nepalese revolution she heard about five years too late – that same half-assed singsong of regret: “If only I could…” – the wine-stained, cigarette-singed coffee table pilfered from the side of the street on garbage day, one too-short leg bolstered by a New American Bible – the lanky kid with the canyon-wide smile on the dining hall steps, “God bless you, Sir,” when I took his free scripture without removing my headphones – a moon so full it’s about to burst wide open ascending ever upward until it disappears – when George is home, we hide the ashtrays and claim we don’t smell tobacco – brown bottles sanitizing in bleachwater bath in a large plastic tub on the counter – Nathan, bluntfucked from solo hotboxing the broken-down car in the drive way with Mel’s blown glass pipe – an old flannel shirt turned dish rag flagging from a nail driven into the wall above the sink – Rosemary describing lucid sex dreams she’s had in a phone call from Italy – the washing machine’s heavy hum rising like rippling heat phantoms from distant summer asphalt – and if it were warmer, we’d be drunk on the porch –

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