Andrew K. Peterson
Poem on Prince’s Birthday
Myth? Ray, has it ever occurred to you that the reason we’ve been so busy lately is because the dead have been rising from the grave. How about a little music?
—Winston Zeddmore and Dr. Raymond Stantz, Ghostbusters
my endless feed a hungry ghost a friend
says Freud says “it is indeed possible to imagine
our own death” like folding into mall-walkers
seamless and without notice by the shuttered Orange
Julius when 1999 was soooo 1984 in 1983
like they don’t know they’re
mortal as any other motherfucker out here
The riders still riding
The raiders still raiding
The lovers still
The let-me-put-my-beers-in-this-box-hey-fellas-wait-up-I-brought-this-box-I-think-it-would-be-good-to-carry-some-beers-in kinda guys
Still doing a thing as they climb the roof to watch the sky remove itself
with a crate to lean some records in
against each other upright to retreat from
the pressure of stacking one on top of the other;
We are a hospitable species, though
to a fault: last night I dreamed you to a Doom Brunch.
The city quiet street for a momentary etude when
“nothing has recently found to be forever”
if some friends forget the evite maybe another one remembers
Hey-guys-give-me-a-hand-with-this-box-we-can-carry-some-beers-in-together-I-think-it-would-be-good-to-carry-some-beers-in-guys- nothing-has-recently-found-to-be-forever!
The end of the world doesn’t matter, this box
Doesn’t matter. The poem in the other room
about making it to the end of the day to leave work early enough to get it together to have a little time to smoke one down to the last embers,
the splatter rise above
rooftops baring steaming summer teeth, little
disappointments and daring plights of city talk’s flights and burdens
inherited and learned, the inconsistencies
like loose beers in a box rattling around
the burn of this ceremonial emoji incense stick
with a thought for the dear departed lady
The riders still riding
The raiders still raiding
The lovers still / the heart still
flagshow about a little music?
Over the bridge we go—a red right night
beats to the ache of these electrolytic longings
Andrew K. Peterson is the author of The Big Game Is Every Night (Locofo Chaps, 2017), Anonymous Bouquet (Spuyten Duyvil, 2015), and bonjour meriwether and the rabid maps (Fact-Simile, 2011). His work appears in Emergency Index 2012 (Ugly Duckling Presse) and has been featured in museum exhibits and performance projects. He edits the online literary journal summer stock and lives in Boston.
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