Coarse. Very course.
It’s poetry full of drinking and fucking. Scenes from an urban wasteland. Tales of a company town.
But yet there is poetry here.
A suicide on Friday and damn awkward water
cooler moments Monday
Someone jokes that they should have done it
Might have got a long weekend
Someone calls him a bastard and you
were thinking the same thing. Big tragedies.
And it’s all going to be reasoned away.
Stress. Home trouble. Something.
No excuses for small things.
Can’t blame stress on stress the wife on the wife
Won’t hold water. Adds up
Fractions like splinters like sharp halves quarters
Adding adding crying jags
Ritual masturbation suicide drinking gambling
Other than goddam concrete.
Sales meetings production lines
Company lines assumed like hobby
Sidewalks nooses melodrama.
Explainable. Excusable. I’m from Windsor.
They make cars there.
Fractions like splinters this is what we get from the pieces in Jon R. Flieger Never Sleep With Anyone From Windsor (Black Moss Press) and something more. There is a rhythm. It’s a wreck but smashed in such a way that to name the city is almost like saying “Stop, stop.” and concluding some sort of exorcism. But we are not in the land of demons — it’s all reasoned away, even if only by a simple recitation in a mode as relentless as an assembly line. All done to a sound track from Neo Geo “Risky” by Ryuichi Sakamoto.
And so for day 1334