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Grey Sparrow Journal

Issue 30, July 31, 2017
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THE DWELLING NO LONGER MENTIONS ITS FRESH COAT OF PAINT




He loved you like a squeeze toy, which is not to be sneezed at if you’ve ever loved one. His songbird of agreeable deprivations, you held the tension on the surface of his one still lake. But now you’re in a tree with your piercing eye-lights cutting the dark away from the dark, each optical star a little hole in the fabric where something possible got through.


It’s raining inside the words tonight, but forgive them if they don’t fall silently.


sometimes when I get confused I feel I am overwhelmingly lost which is not the same thing as vanishing (someone else’s view of it) or disappearing (my personal favorite in which no one but me knows if I am still found in my own view or was surprised by some event removing me from even myself)


It’s as persistent as warm gossip. (In reality, where such visions can happen, something unfortunate, or too weak to hold on, fell to the earth, and the snow testified loudly, with a hand over its mouth.) One does this to show surprise when one is not surprised.


sometimes the meaning disappears and the words do not when they are found in a questionable sequence and the reasons for this are voluminous but not unlimited because when the words vanish they are taken equally from us all which remains a part of us when the words have reattached from a new angle


My scattered progress remained intent upon the sky within, and in this way I was not to be found naked in my bell and was hers, and she sat a spell and rung unto herself, and this I am told was contained in my absence.


moving the lost from one location to another does not lose them again but moving the vanished means you are one of them for only they know where they are moving to which leaves you with the disappeared who are not possible without redefining themselves


1) Grasshoppers aren’t obvious but there are grasshoppers in the conversation.


2) A frame around these words does not hold the picture securely.


3) Gossip still occurs when you’re alone.


Which remains similar to the way the word apricot deceives me. Life too deceives me, with my intentions of figuring out why I am deceived. Everything I think about right now deceives me. Knowing this also deceives me. The opposite of these questionable pleasures is absent from the doing of things right, which appears to be simpler, and then someone you know steps out of a snowbank, and you know it isn’t me and suspect too much attention has been given to what hasn’t happened.


                                                                                                                                                                                -Rich Ives