Poetry by Peter Gutierrez

Things that are over before they start are the most beautiful things

lay your hands on the brakes, these eyes, gentle imperatives all the way round, do this/

do that, and be sure to order another round for the boys, due

now, is what the hypnagogic master said—there is nothing

wrapped in a mantle of something,

at its core, there is less

than we hoped for, all these constructions covering

it, the multifaced long haul from birth to unwanted

birth—pick the cherries from your pupils. or so

they said

mother, you are dead and buried; it’s been five of

those years since I was on your hill, taking

snapshots of the gravestone, then

sending them to the sister to whom, it

appears, I am already [reader, fill in the rest; lay your brakes

on these hands]

have not observed a single thing

trim the hair from the rockface of the all-giant;
something is growing despite God; they
probably hate that—the all-God, that is; it’s
like explaining baseball to the smartiest, smart
ant in the whole anthill, as amusing and pointless:
we wander tightly, tethered to the things told
to us as childs

Sound of stones

listening for it, the sound of stones, in the blank hours of the unexhausted

dawns; it is right


listen for it, floating sideways in the dim glop: the non-pulsing

breath at the lungless centrality of all objects; it is confirming all

that dares be

listen to it,

and we’ll hear it separately and separated, amidst the siren-y screams,

undisturbed and transparent, the glowing that is backwardly

inward, showing the way, casting a light so unassuming it does not

brighten, lest it stain the surfaces, the depths, the walls you walk

between on the labyrinth’s long and disjointed journey

of return

Peter Gutierrez

Twitter: @suddenlyquiet

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