Another Eden
I got kicked out of
a bar called Eden
in Irvine, California
by a bouncer who
grabbed me gently
at first, then squeezed
the bottom of my
ass while he
tossed me into
the alley. Looking
back, it made me
happy. I wanted my
body to be got—
why not like this?
It made everything
purpose-driven, even
as I hit the sidewalk.
I can’t tell if these
bruises are from
the pavement or
his hands throwing
me away with such
meaningful disregard,
like how minimalist
painters eject us
from their work
on the grounds
that we are human.
Moments before
some guy had told
me a joke I didn’t
quite understand
about an auction,
when I offered
to buy his drink,
then another, then
he left. I’m sure
he’s told that joke
before. I won’t
repeat it. It wasn’t
funny, anyway.
He was a student
of art history.
Medecine
My mood is big.
Bigger than the future.
It holds me together
at two edges, desire
and expectation, like
a wound bound by
sutures. With this
this in mind, I concede
to taking the SSRIs.
The pills insult me
by being small—
every night, midnight
for five weeks. Then
November comes,
a regular November.
I rip the husks open
before buying corn.
My doctor says,
This isn’t working.
He stares at me
blankly, like a poet
scrutinizing a draft.
Always squinting,
his eyes like scars—
____________
Jake Orbison is a writer from New York. His work also appears in Ambit, the Boston Review, poets.org, and elsewhere.
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