Winter 2000 • Vol. XXII No. 1 Poetry |

The Nothing Redemption

Some men's voices rose and fell far away.   Time changed. Time got stupid and I stood in line with the gobs,   our drawers at our feet so our cheeks we could pull apart. One boy's   hole was plastered closed with his own dried months of shit,   and the doctor called a second doctor in and the sergeants arrived feigning aimlessness.   Oh la the boy sang to the doctors who giggled   like men when they dream about war. I could not imagine that a man would shit himself   and let his own shit dry himself closed.   I didn't know that you could do that so they would not take you into the state;   so they would not make you cross through that door of lies   into the greenery's mist. All night that night I rode out on a slow train with my cousin,   and drunk, I pissed from the upper berth   down onto him passed out in the berth below. He never woke up   but I thought I should wash him soapy clean for the killing  

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My Waiting Brain

By Bruce Weigl

Some men's voices rose and fell far away.   Time changed. Time got stupid and I stood in line with the gobs,   our drawers at our feet so our cheeks we […]

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