KEATON KING

Issue Two

DRIFTING

     There is
           an emptiness 
                   only found amidst
three hours of sleep,       silence
           beyond the stream  —
                                bodily facts
                                    become silhouetted
                 through the submerged
                                                    communication cables
                                         locating point
                                         to counterpoint.                               You
                                                                                                 red faced
                                                                                           and wailing
                                                                                        with the lost
                                                                                    weight
                                                         in the ossified language habits
                                                         adopted through
                                                                        reliction
                                                          and withdrawal.
              Disproportionately leaning
                                    on the meaning
                                   reviled
                   beyond a measured decorum
                                  in tableware
                                    and speech;
                         held aloft
                                        as something
                                                    irrationally
                                                             obtained
                                but not yet accommodated for
                                     as we discover
                           depth in the
                            chart
                           now
          used as guide. Continuous is
                                       the defined
                                  condition
                      immaterial to sleep
   yet holding firm in the
             currents of reference
    and gravitation.
  

                                                                          
 AFTER SONATA 

            Home is something 
                                        we name 
                        but can never feel  
as the word            discarnate  
                                 even in definition 
                                               leads to a recitation 
                             within ourselves.         The first time 
                                                                        we fucked 
                                                             it was mid afternoon 
                                                       with the blinds wide open, 
                                                      neither caring 
                              atop the ripped sheets 
                  which we tore further, 
                                               with a belief in provincials 
                                                              regarding who 
                                                          could still be watching— 
             but that negation is all yours.  
                                 Hell or heaven both, 
                     misery ends in a modernist 
                                                   position outside of what we 
                                                          were taught on Sundays 
                                     with a cricked flower  
                                    and a cracked window  
                          that still persists—protective  
                                                                                       ultimately 
                                                                                    while I can’t be 
                                                                                  ahhh no longer. 
The spiritual was internal 
as strawberries  
                                became our emancipation— 
                                                 deference still maintaining; 
                             the seeds spilling out 
       never losing their juicy stauros.  
     Here I lie, 
                    sweating like August 
                                                                with you leaning over my 
                                                                                  porch railing 
                                                                               as I ride off on my 
                                                                                      bike 
                                              looking for a reprieve; 
                                                                               a breath 
                                    of that subtle Arizona air 
                                                     I’ve heard so much about 
                                                            and wish to lose you 
                                                                                         so much further in.



About Keaton King
Keaton King is the author of two chapbooks, The White Nudie Suit, and Appointments. He is a poet residing in Portland, Oregon.