Aaron Pinnix: When I Said Ghosts Are Assholes
Poem For Meaux, on Poetry
Foreign figures approach, stop at entrance to Azure Canyon. Only sound spring survivor crickets which portent arrival of bohemian waxwings. Between these two bods, bird & cricket, signification/signification, a shitty language of desire, desiring.
Golden green corpuscles languish before the really hot poison before ageless steamhammering their position among paper nests of movable spikes. Bohemian waxwings dart over canyon walls eschewing straight chronology. Our poet’s tracks, also called tank treads or caterpillar tracks trail behind in inordinate fashion.
The eye ocular ranges over another party disrupted. Braised and bruised ravines carouse. the seepage. the seepage of the natural as if. espirte de chillillin. Say something to smoke. It’s yellow, convalescent, leaves. A spirit of the communard, Spiritus Mundi.
Poet and Reader:
These connect like 2 dogs on hot day, separate by wire fence, tongues out. Let me clarify what I mean. When I said ghosts are assholes I meant dogs are smelling at the ghosts of assholes. I look out to a parking lot and know loneliness, my shitty language of desire, desiring, my heart/ carried out to sea. In the red breast of a turdus migratorius.
Editor's Note: This poem appeared in a previous issue.
Aaron Pinnix is a graduate student of Fordham University’s English PhD program. Originally of Alabama, formerly of Montreal & Maine, he now hangs his hat in NYC. As a writer who’s fond of dystopias and magical realism, NYC is an ideal location for inspiration. His writing can be found in various places such as Horse Less Press’s special issue on typewritten poetry, ‘Carriage Return,’ the journal ‘Radical Philosophy Review,’ ‘The New Quarterly,’ and ‘Stolen Island.’