our dicks are ball peen hammers swinging at a dented globe before one can be everything and exist in a singularity of alt and truism where everything is one.

Dear Guardian Angels,

… I remembered him this way — not long in this world sucking on my fingers. A sandpaper-y intimacy. I took his horns when I was 9 and laid on the caustic stick too long. The small dark fountain spewing from the top of his head surprised me and I lost control of him for a minute. And then for another couple of minutes I held a rag tight against his skull until the redness stopped coming.

It’s been 50 years so I was surprised to see him tonight, dragging his 12 foot chain from his nose ring. I lost…

Why don’t we build a tram line from Abbeyfeale to the HANGINGING COWSLIP-LIP GARDENS OF TOOREEN-OOREEN? This is a confession box not a suggestion box says the priest. Is there anything else…sins… anymore sins? I can’t think of any says Jack. That’s how Jack tells the story, that the whole thing was his idea, not Fr. Dan’s. Even the letter to the Queen of Holland that was delivered by pigeon. There is something about the set of the clouds today that takes me back. The year is 1972 and the gift, a thank-u-tram from Holland is sailing across the Irish…

Heads or toes no difference In the turf foot we lean on the other in four and sixes. And we dream the hand dangle long fingered alive in a tick tock of math, the quick kiss of fingertip to limpet shell the blind raking callus across our fetal hump. Lay down in the nightjar’s egg and brush your lips on the palm of the nameless child before it retreats into the dry peat.

and our midging armies drift in plumes of consciousness.

Out of the membered fog hypotenuse she forms a hob boot shuffle to the shed. Hood and frieze-fold…

It is thought cabbage was domesticated by the Celts somewhere in Europe around Knocknagoshel. I imagine it was running wild before that and if you were a hunter chasing it downhill you were at a disadvantage. On each summer solstice, tourists still race against heads of cabbage down these wild dock-leaved hills and always will. There is a monument here in the Village Square dedicated to the Cabbage Soldiers. A bronze casting of a young soldier holding the arm of a blind man. A beautiful, if sentimental homage to the children who were fostered into warrior training. Gathered at midnight…

John Fitzgerald

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