Eliza Rotterman’s “to gallop finally into the Milky Way”

heading west: Kansas is the state of confessions, one of the eight poems included in “to gallop finally into the Milky Way” by Eliza Rotterman

heading west: Kansas is the state of confessions

How old were you when the belief that every individual is
special exposed its genitals then ran off into the woods
behind the school? As a child did you worry astronauts
would be lost in space? How often do you phone your
mother? Standing in the checkout line, do you silently
criticize the fat rounding out that poor girl’s waist? The one
holding the box of little chocolate donuts, a carton of milk
and a bag of Fritos? When you read, be here now, do you think
yes and feel the lightness of your being? When was the last
time you made love with your eyes open? The first time you
took advantage of someone else’s willingness? When you
look at photographs of refugees do you think suffering is
ironic? How many people do you think are having sex right
now in Kansas? If you could bring a loved-one back from
the dead, would you? When you’re walking in the city, how
often do you check yourself out? If you multiply that by the
total number of foreclosures in 2009, is that number more or
less than the hours spent defining acts of genocide in 1994? Is
art a matter of just making things up?
Give me your hand. We’re crossing the state line.


Dream Yard Drone & Love Story by Alison Jean Kinney (excerpt)


I wish I could invite you out here. Although, come to think of it, I’m not sure you’d really like it. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I can’t invite you. I don’t have any invitations left. You only get so many see, and I sent the last one about a year ago. You’d think I’d be lonely by now. Well, I don’t know, maybe I am. It’s hard to say, you know sadness is just sadness. I’m either sad or I’m not. You know better than anyone that loneliness is just sadness adorned in specificity  and definition. It’s a bit pretentious if you ask me. My point is, I feel all right, I’m not so sad, not most of the time, so don’t spend so much time worrying about me. And for god’s sake, please stop telling people I’m dead. Dead is such a silly word anyway. Dead, what the hell is that supposed to mean?


From the looks of your last letter, it seems that you haven’t understood much of anything I’ve told you. I’ve given it some thought, and I’ve come up with some advice for you. Here it is: if by chance you encounter a piece of imagery while reading my letters, I encourage you to examine it through a kaleidoscope, magnifying glass, telescope, or perhaps the lens of your grandmother’s cataract. Any of these helpful tools will bring you closer to the truth of my words than you could ever achieve with your naked mind’s eye.

I hope this helps.

. . .
Read the full story here!