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..:: CONTENTS ::..
   Volume VIII, Issue I

..:: POETRY ::..


..:: PROSE ::..

..:: ETC ::..
   Contributor's Notes

..:: ARCHIVES ::..
   Volume I, Issue I
   Volume I, Issue II
   Volume II, Issue I
   Volume II, Issue II
   Volume III, Issue I
   Volume III, Issue II
   Volume IV, Issue I
   Volume IV, Issue II
   Volume V, Issue I
   Volume V, Issue II
   Volume VI, Issue I
   Volume VI, Issue II
   Volume VII, Issue I

 
Poetry


from Apparition Poems: 219
Adam Fieled

 

Everyone always looks forward to a fight
if they've planned the fight themselves—
they'll brave the anticipated death, shake
the anticipated curse, wake to hear Gabriel's
trumpet when it resounds like manna as they
are already grave-bound. But nobody has
ever known what to do about slow decay,
gradual erosion, slow-motion entropy, the
kind of shit that actually happens. You wake
and half a handful of things have turned to
shit, then three months of peace, then the
same thing again. What this "I" has learned
is that not everybody wins, not everybody
lives, if you've got it in you to live you can
still get killed, and deathly morons pull up
a winning ticket for twenty more years of
grand larceny. The lesson is that there is no
lesson. What you can learn is to let go of it,
everything, and let Gabriel play Miles ad infinitum.

 

 

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