from INSTANT KILLER WIG


Say your goodbyes.
We are here finally.

I was just commenting on
where time goes.

You are skin and bones
considering.

I do not feel up
to people today

and know what I would say
to seconds.

Would you stretch the date
until it snows.

Typically one sinks at midnight
then wipes the eyes and orbits.

Why is it blooming
on one side only.

Bless you.
I hear light.





This is improving my death perception.

The shade falls on blankets
pulling west. For the fixtures we are thinking
in that direction.

Feeling for contact is best practice.
The cities are frozen and packed
and you are stacking up.

We are always at the halfway point to something.

Is this the house.
Are those daisies growing over the lip.

Now plant yourself.
Bear in mind
your child inside who drags behind.

This is also sound advice.
Try the grouper tonight. I hear it divines.





What has gotten into you.

Afternoons like this, they are big in our eyes
and tend to live on the skin.
If light makes it through then
I hope you can sleep.

Who is attending to this place.
Think of the right person
and what he could do.

You have been holding up your end for an eternity.
Would you like a hand.

Now I am regretting my passing
and not getting off at the last stop.
Perhaps you would prefer storing by your feet over your head.

Yes, it is fitting. Thank you.
No, no. Think of nothing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dan Kaplan is the author of the book Bill's Formal Complaint (The National Poetry Review Press, 2008) and the bilingual chapbook SKIN (Red Hydra Press, 2005). His work has appeared in Denver Quarterly, Barrow Street, Meridian, West Branch, Third Coast, Indiana Review, the Norton anthology Flash Fiction Forward, and elsewhere. His website is dan-kaplan.com.