I Thought I Was New Here

Gregory Lawless

BlazeVOX [books] Buffalo, New York

I Thought I Was New Here By Gregory Lawless Copyright 2009 Published by BlazeVOX [books] All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced without the publishers written permission, except for brief quotations in reviews. Printed in the United States of America Book design by Geoffrey Gatza Front Cover design by Jenifer Lawless First Edition ISBN: 9781935402138 Library of Congress Control Number: 2008943143 BlazeVOX [books] 14 Tremaine Ave Kenmore, NY 14217 Editor@blazevox.org

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How strange, I thought I was new here. James Tate Went every day to the wreck Daniel Defoe, Robinson Crusoe

Lord
After Robert Hass

Lord, today I fell asleep in a slather of buckwheat beneath the trees, and the dogwood petals popped softly on my cheeks, and in my dream I was marooned on a strange island, and the natives touched me with wonder and utter fear, tapping at my face and throat. That's what the fingers were, Lord: blossoms dropping down to earth to feel the dazed animal at their shores. And trembling, Lord, all of us trembling. As though death might be the cost of welcoming without the use of words.

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Things Frequently Asked Questions: Where should I put my things? Answers to Frequently Asked Questions: Over there. * What things? asked the Captain. Those, said the Chandler. * Once, I took a bus away from the city. It didnt matter where it went. I just wanted to get away from things. * On most things we agree. On some things, certainly, we agree. Is everything alright then. Fine, everything is fine. * The Captain: These things, you mean. The Chandler: Yes. *
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In college, I had a professor who made the following claim: All things are one. Any questions, he asked. I raised my hand. Any questions. * The Captain: You mean to tell me. The Chandler: Yes. * Fine, what do you mean by fine. Its fine. That. Is what I mean. Everything, you mean. Everything. Yes. Exactly. * Later, I came back to the city and my mind was clear. * The Chandler: Captain. The Captain: Chandler. * You have a question. Yes. I have a question.

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Real Dreaming Our boat floats on the reservoir, blue as memoir, barely a sound. We are going somewhere with two worlds between us, but in just one boat. Later is later, which is how we like it. How wed like to keep it. In the end, the world will be divided. The world with our worlds floating in the middle. Night will raise its black sails and slice in half the water. When you open the map, it will split perfectly in two. And you will hold your fate in each hand.

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Field Trip to the Museum Featuring Your Death in a Glass Display Case It is round. It sounds, the sign says, like someone staring at a phone, like a blindfold in a drawer, like moonlight on a spoon. It weighs three pounds. It is the color of a crows eye when it stares at fireflies. When you look at it you feel tall. If it weighed nothing, the sign says, youd have nothing to worry about, nothing at all.

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Exile Last night, I followed the aqueduct to the edge of the city, and there, by the spilling pipes and gurgling cisterns, I fell asleep. In the morning, I thought about my travels: the ferry ride through the channel, crossing the dustlands by foot, and in the east, the cresting rockets my first taste of flight. Once, in my journals, I predicted the day of my death. That day passed away a long time ago, though, naturally, I am alive. Perhaps it was meant to encourage me when, on a morning like this one, I might open my notebooks, see the flawed prophecy and savor my survival. Or perhaps it was meant to title everything after that: The Hereafter. I dont remember. At some point you cross into the language of loss from the language of arrival. Maybe I am stuck in between them, speaking the middle. Coming or going, it makes no difference to me, though sometimes it pains me a great dealand even though it pains me to speak, I still speak about the world.

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Avalanche In my last life I came back as a mountain, which was punishment for the life before when I was plummeting snow. I killed three hikers, so I had to forge fresh emeralds from bedrock to bribe the gods. When I got out I called my brother up in Indiana, but he was nothingjust the space between ears of corn. My mother was a highway with narrow shoulders who ran close to the sea. I knew a guy once who died and came back as a planetary ring somewhere in the space-boonies. Hes still mostly dust. And when he sends letters home they just burn up in the atmosphere; the fried remains wind up on the mantles of astronomers who are all first-borns here, and who go around naming the night-fog after themselves, saying, with wonder, how small we all are. Now I keep hoping that the light wont hurt as much when I see it again for the first time. When Im human and young again, and my knees ache all over because theyre made from that part of the universe that hasnt cooled off yet from the first fires. And I hope I wont forget how I thought I was new here each time, and how wrong it was I always turned out to be.

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Gryphon My only friend is a gryphon, bright as nails. My mother sends us into the forest; she cant stand the smell. Out there, we go on adventures, raiding villages, pillaging gold. Good times, me and the gryphon. We burn and burn. One night, the villagers ram broom handles into the gryphons eyes. They pop like ornaments falling off a Christmas tree. But its okay. My gryphon. He eats gold. He knows the human heart. He drags his stone tongue across the villagers bloody brooms. He walks the children to church. At high noon he flies up to the tower and stirs the bell with his tail. After a while, they get used to him. They ignore him. He eats ravens by the treeful. He sleeps in the trees. He doesnt bother anybody. The next time he comes close to me, Ill drag a knife through his belly. Ill eat the gold right out of his body. I dont know what he owes me, that gryphon, but he owes me.

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