ditch,

the poetry that matters

Ethan Milner

Ethan Milner is a writer and Social Worker in Ann Arbor. His work has appeared in Short, Fast & Deadly, decomP, Xylem, and the Residential College Review.

in this midst

in this midst
          tattoo ebullient
oeuvres of
          yearning, rain
peelings of
          wanting, rave
three husks
                            of

youth, seducing
          truth, a cracked
                       mirror is still right
                                        three times
                                        three times
                                        three times a day.

 


st. capricious ogles cezanne's bathers

1.
          budding burnout:
          muscle relaxants
          on the desk beg
          to be crushed and
          snorted, mysteries
          inhaled

2.      
          emptying the power jar
          into the sink, after storms
          sunlight only serves
          to magnify forthcoming
          dark, undertones buried
          by snow-colored ash, the
          gelid tendrils of the familiar
             undulating wildly

3.
          scant lumens left, the blue brush
          night paints her canvas with soaks
          in a cup of dark, not to sap but to
          screen, night is a tincture forbidden
          by most ghosts, you cannot wash in
          its oils unless you are fearless, that is
          why the bathers are so brazen in orange
             hues,  indifferent to even the death
                                                         of the sun.

 

 

enjoy your tomb!

the mountaintop is dusted with a greasy mist from the loch;

                        a track of footprints curls fast around the crest,

the lone house is empty of all the spiders so half a moon hangs around, wasting light on a meal worm --

            and god,

                        i’d like to shake out of it but the fog weighs like lead stone, i can’t swim through it,          curtains of the haze tangle,

            two helixes stimulating the nerve endings of winter,                         daggers of ice hang from vascular branches outside the window

reaching through the night,

                            the absolute night, known for absolutions that i have yet to receive --

there is just the heavier me to account for, all his sins spelled on the stars like ice in the night, or a bomb in the tomb

 

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                                                                                                              April 12, 2012