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      November 24, 2021A Tour de ForceBrendan Constantine

      I got a book and can’t
      make myself read it, even
      though my lover swears
      it’s good, even though
      the cover says we might
      all beautifully belong
      somewhere. Imagine if
      everything you saw was
      printed inside your skull
      where people could see it
      after you died. When
      you do a lot of cocaine
      it feels like that’s true, like
      the gallery is struggling
      to stay open because pipes
      keep breaking and the floor
      is always wet. That’s what
      I remember, anyway. It’s
      been a while since I had
      enough money to be that
      beautiful and echoing.
      Of course, you can’t find
      anything in my head that looks
      like a sunset or a toy horse,
      it’s all just goo in there,
      that’s what memories become,
      dark water and milk. You
      could no more read it back
      than you could drink the ink
      from a novel and know
      who loved who.

      from #73 – Fall 2021

      Brendan Constantine

      “I don’t have a single approach to poetry. That is, whether the thing I’m making is a poem isn’t even on my mind. I’m just writing, and the longer I do, chances are I’ll discover what is on my mind. Sometimes it feels like walking against water, each word difficult and liable to fall away. Other times, it can feel like the poem already exists and I’m merely ‘negotiating’ with it, to see how it would like to be born. This piece is in the ‘where the hell did that come from’ category. It seemed just to appear at the end of my pen. My third book was like that; the speakers just barged in at odd hours and said, ‘Take this down …’ In this case, I almost felt goaded. What I wrote made me uncomfortable and my discomfort became my guide. I hope this doesn’t sound ‘too’ crazy. Just the usual amount.”

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