Louis Kasatkin

We sleep the sleep of forever

sleep the sleep of here and now,
...

Do maps redraw themselves after they are

rolled up and put back in the drawer?
...

The mordant day drifts along its course
into the deep deep of evening,
its hours exhausted by a futility
arduously wrought with effort, endeavour, exasperation;
...

The hours of Autumn chime
their slow lament,
dedicated to lachrymose entwined
self-pity and ennui;
...

Days are made charitable by their absence,
best off intruding someone else's eviscerated
existence rather than mine;
Time was when I felt
...

Every evening at 5.09
he leaves the office,
takes the streetcar
into town,
...

a barely muted buzzing of flies
thousands upon thousands,
a counterpoint click-clicking
of crickets in chorus,
...

Tendril lines snaking

coiled uncoiled uncoiling,
...

Smashed glass alley rain swept,
boarded storefront windows,
chainlocked factory gates,
broken streetlamp neighbourhoods;
...

Your mirror no longer recognises you
as you stare in vain at it
hoping to jog its memory;
the face your mirror chooses to reflect
...

His arm moves
like a windshield wiper in a downpour,
cutting and cutting and cutting
cutting all across a wooden doll face;
...

The years and their memories,
memories of the years
which we struggle to recall,
grasping at inconsequential ephemera,
...

The photographer ' snaps ' her subject,
Danna, in front of a shuttered building
at 6323 Hollywood Boulevard;
Her story is a familiar one,
...

Winter has returned

and with it the migrating

Bear and her eager Cubs,

their old habitat deserted
...

' We are both thieves
you and I ',
said the Man
who stole a Billion
...

' this poem is entirely
a work of fiction,
the meanings of the words
used herein are the work
...

Stark geometric lines
intersecting clean marble
and steel;
horizonless concourses
...

What,
if,
what if,
'if'
...

The Hours wait,
impatient
for the day
to start.
...

What the State says is lies
which those in office seek to disguise,

with myth, fiction, opinion or fable
...