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    Slow Dance With Sasquatch
    Slow Dance With Sasquatch
    Slow Dance With Sasquatch
    Ebook107 pages50 minutes

    Slow Dance With Sasquatch

    By Jeremy Radin

    3.5/5

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    About this ebook

    Slow Dance with Sasquatch is an invitation into a private ballroom, a banquet hall in the middle of the woods. Here, you will sit and feast and waltz with your monsters. Here, you will harvest imagination from loneliness and longing. Here, you will coax laughter from the beasts’ mouths. Here, the table is always fully loaded. Here, the cake is always warm, and no matter how much of it you eat, you will never stop being beautiful.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherWrite Bloody Publishing
    Release dateOct 1, 2018
    ISBN9781935904618
    Slow Dance With Sasquatch

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      Book preview

      Slow Dance With Sasquatch - Jeremy Radin

      Author

      PART I

      LOVE LETTERS TO THE LORD OF ROOMS

      May he be reincarnated as a chandelier and hang by day and burn by night

      —Yiddish curse

      HOW IT IS MADE

      In her absence he lays

      with his bloodless

      fist pulsing

      against his chest.

      His other hand,

      in front of his mouth

      so his breath curls

      back and back and back.

      In her absence

      he invents her

      and falls in love

      with the inventing

      as his friends

      become husbands

      and fathers.

      BLIND RIFLER OF DOVES

      after Shira Erlichman

      This sadness, a sack of blind

      doves, opened by a man

      in a helicopter. I shoot at them, blind

      too, blind rifler of doves, hands

      full of rifles. The doves explode, light

      the dusk with fireworks of flour. Tomorrow

      the yard is a stand of cake

      trees. This sadness, an ascension

      into bleached woods, a blind sack

      of dead doves, rifle fingers

      finding always the small hearts,

      shivering bits of confetti, neighbor

      children building houses in a forest

      of my sorrow, climbing, biting

      the necks of the cake trees, faces

      bearded with frosting, my skin

      a seed bag, overflowing

              with bullets.

      A PYRAMID OF BISON

      Here is the home I have come back to

      after my most magnificent failing.

      My father’s house at the end of the road.

      Here is the brick staircase that leads to the front door.

      Here is the part where I climb it again, pride

      tucked like socks

      into unworn work boots.

      Here is the hallway that spits me into kitchen.

      The clutter, the rainwater, sinking

      through the ceiling. Crispex rooted. Dish crust

      crusting. Rind. Stem. Knife.

      Here is the refrigerator. White, woodless casket.

      How many times have I buried myself in it?

      Harmonizing with the humming ‘til the lights burned

      out. ‘Til I dreamed of sex

      amongst the pickles, the cream cheese.

      Here is papa’s credit card, lying on the table

      so I do not go hungry or learn how to hunt.

      Here is the couch that has memorized

      the shape of me.

      Here is the carpet that drinks deep the cream soda,

      the barbecue sauce, the globs of cake frosting.

      Here is the TV – furnace flicker mouth-king.

      How many hours have I shoveled through

      your yawn?

      Here is the bedroom with nothing on the walls.

      Pictures in frames on the closet floor. Collages

      of songwriters, stuffed behind dressers.

      Here is the bed. The one-man country. The quiet

      war. Limp. Anthemless.

      Here are my bloodlines, hardening in boxer briefs.

      Here is a sock you could use as a boomerang.

      Here is the mirror. The liar. The yes thief.

      Here are bookshelves like buildings, stacked up with stories.

      The books that I wish were a cold flock of shotguns.

      How I long for the pages

      to turn against my skull.

      Here is the empty

      and here is the empty.

      Here are the secrets

      and here are the secrets.

      Here is the truth that I play hide and seek with.

      Here are my sorrows – a pyramid of bison.

      How did I ever stack heavy so high?

      Here is where I murdered the men I wished to be:

      Kite-eating loverboys, steel-skinned rain heroes,

      bone-brushers, moon-pushers,

      gruff pickers of pears.

      What did we think we were trying to do?

      Why did we ever think we could?

      This house, it grins

      like an autopsied carcass, says

      This is how I will always remember you: trembling

      like an antelope brought down by arrows,

      asking the arrows

      if it’s okay to bleed.

      SO SPEAKS THE LORD OF ROOMS

      When the night pushes your head into its lap, chokes you with its yesless anatomy. When the whiskey is a bellyful of dark nails. When you never drink, but tonight is a fresh death, I am this night. When wicked tangle finds your hunger. When the high-heel party bulletholes your brain, rakes across your nerves, this is me. When heavy hangs like blanket hell. When sleep mocks you from the corners of the room. When lust

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