ditch,

David Michael Wolach, originally from Detroit, teaches creative writing and philosophy at Evergreen State College. David's work is often collaborative and uses a combination of media (audio, text, and visual stills). Author of a novel, a volume of short prose, and three volumes of poetry, his essays, fiction, and poetry have appeared in numerous journals, such as The Duplications: A Journal of Contemporary Poetry (University of Kansas), Night Train, The Tipton Poetry Journal, Poetry Midwest, Storyglossia, Saint Elizabeth Street, ABOVO, Rhubarb Is Susan, Wallace Thinks Again, and Toasted Cheese, among others.  The recipient of a Broadside Press Poet's Award and a Peralta Press Editor's Prize for New Fiction, he was recently nominated for a Story South Award and named a finalist in Glimmer Train's Fiction Open. David serves as one of the managing editors of Wheelhouse Magazine, a progressive arts and politics quarterly.

March 9

the game was not real

March 16

we used periods.  strong font.    

April 1

a project of reclamation. 

April 27

recalling that:

read

is homomorphic to

read

May 3

crossing lines made us warm outside.  fists

were neutron stars, the coverage poor.

May 13

from now on we steal

our papers, scan

back to front. 

June 26                  

a) sport never lies

b) baseball enjoys the afterlife

c) of relics, tombstones, heroes

a mythos we would have traded

for long tables, donut mornings

glancing at stars

on a good night

Modalities

Don’t worry I never loved you. I loved you seventy-

thousand times.  Once after that daring rescue

from the jaws of the Baring Sea.  Once,

just once, during an episode of Mash. Meta-

theoretical framework needed for our newfound

non-love, for the large but finite number

of times we almost never fucked blind,

the myriad years you didn’t bite your knuckle

on orders to be silent from the man who wasn’t

me, the curly haired top who never loved you almost

on an order of magnitude larger than granules

of sand + number of stars in any galaxy let alone

this one, this infinitesimal non-blithe house, this

your home out of school, exile, lovely excuse

for your Cartesian tendencies.

Collapsible Wave Function/11(2)

My daddy is my daddy is in a Tarskian theory of truth

My daddy is a plasma television

My daddy is a fiddle

My daddy is a violins

My daddy is your daddy is in a non-Tarskian universe

My daddy is my broke his other leg

My daddy is never born

My daddy is owed money to himself

My daddy is a card shark from Detroit

My daddy is the Kremlin

My daddy is fishes from jail

My mother is my daddy

My mother is not, never was is

My mother is broke his other leg

My mother is playing poker with Napoleonic Wars

My mother is get your degree in just two months online

My mother is keen on knee-jerk protest poetry

My mother is this wave function

My mother is dead in 1938

My mother is the mother of mothers who are made of gas

My mother is a distopian galaxy formed when m collided with m

My mother is a gentle soul, whipped by her mother years ago