Tilt, Literary Notes

- Mr. Wish - by Steve Mueske is so tall and spidery thin he can pick a lock with his fingers. He knows his way around ropes, the creak and sway of garage beams. Gasoline, razor blades, pills – whatever you choose, he comes to ease you of life, but will brook no change of mind. He is a curiosity in his cypress suit, hair a spill of oil. He glides from place to place like a train spraying sparks toward that unstoppable whump, the flick of a switch in a room bulbed with gas. It doesn't matter if you are ready when he comes, he comes. Your heart blooming like a rose in rich, black loam, it will be too late to take back those words uttered in prayer, in hope, sibilant as a kiss.
- So Much of X is Y - by Steve Mueske and I'm careless of the wind blowing through the holes in my body, low whistle of subterranean congress, fore-lit train rising into a day buttered with promise. Careless of infatuations with neon, wolf-hour visions of the fifth angel polishing its trumpet on the eve of destruction; the whip-tag tryst of nerve and brain. Those things. I am on fire, writing letters to the dead, swallowing swords— anything to appease the inventor of sorrow. Tomorrow is a game of euchre with the ghost of midnight, and I'm an odds-on favorite for resurrection. Who knew it would feel this good to run nude through butterflies? The wind is filled with music, a verse and chorus of birds, a trumpeting of orange-flowered vine climbing lattice. I'm watching the sky while ants march for shelter, this itch the nose-burn of ozone, curl of dog-lip and black tulips, careless of skirling sirens. I've been here in dreams, at the intersection of store-back and alley, plastic and alloy, sweet tincture of key and chord. This is where the song forms, rising out of nothing, with little more than a few ideas about itself. *previously published in Redactions (also appears in Steve's book, A Mnemonic for Desire)

- Mr. Wish -
by Steve Mueske

is so tall and spidery thin
he can pick a lock with his fingers.

He knows his way around ropes, the creak
and sway of garage beams. Gasoline,

razor blades, pills – whatever
you choose, he comes to ease you

of life, but will brook no change of mind.
He is a curiosity in his cypress suit,

hair a spill of oil. He glides
from place to place like a train

spraying sparks
toward that unstoppable whump,

the flick of a switch in a room bulbed
with gas. It doesn't matter

if you are ready when he comes,
he comes. Your heart blooming

like a rose in rich, black loam,
it will be too late to take back those

words uttered in prayer, in hope,
sibilant as a kiss.

- So Much of X is Y -
by Steve Mueske

and I'm careless of the wind blowing
through the holes in my body, low whistle

of subterranean congress, fore-lit train
rising into a day buttered with promise. Careless

of infatuations with neon, wolf-hour
visions of the fifth angel polishing its trumpet

on the eve of destruction; the whip-tag tryst
of nerve and brain. Those things.

I am on fire, writing letters to the dead,
swallowing swords— anything to appease

the inventor of sorrow. Tomorrow
is a game of euchre with the ghost of midnight,

and I'm an odds-on favorite for resurrection.
Who knew it would feel this good

to run nude through butterflies?
The wind is filled with music,

a verse and chorus of birds, a trumpeting
of orange-flowered vine climbing lattice.

I'm watching the sky while ants march for shelter,
this itch the nose-burn of ozone,

curl of dog-lip and black tulips, careless
of skirling sirens. I've been here in dreams,

at the intersection of store-back and alley,
plastic and alloy, sweet tincture of key and chord.

This is where the song forms, rising out of nothing,
with little more than a few ideas about itself.

*previously published in Redactions (also appears in Steve's book, A Mnemonic for Desire)