FOUR POEMS by JACOB TATE
ill see you when you get here
my aunt told her swirled wine
“dont think about it too hard
or youll never sleep a wink at night”
and heard enough to remember
all the new faces i could
see flash in even older loves,
faces begging to be tried, to be
freed and i can’t sleep without
the sheets breathing even the
slightest nearness onto
the bruise
the bruise
for once, my feeling cannot
force my thinking to flee
the bruise
i tell the sidewalks, the
friends, the tiled spines,
all the scorekeepers of our
windtunnels, clay fired as they
are. as vomited as this
is.
mana
sustained by airspace
i dont know until thirteen how full
of am, fm, satellite
my emptiness is
sustained by the porch
saving the nights of lust away to their
marooning, i don’t know,
i am so unfair in spilling my guts instantly
their loss
sustained by what i wrote a year ago
make that two, make that
well i wrote a song yesterday.
make that four
shit, fuck me
sustained by loving my grandparents enough
to think even if they’re wrong about
God, they’re right about god and
i will find it, they have just not worked
smart or hard or both and
i am sixteen so i am both and
i am twenty two and i am neither
but i still love them enough to kiss
anything once
a frenemy
tube tv and tube socks affirm (don’t)
the flocks of seagulls in a summer breeze. (fall)
childhood corners bend and (in)
laziness sets into comfort
holding on for dear life,
for fear
fear of it all
richard siken’s your refinery clouds (love).
doomed chatterings of domestic appliances (with),
sears catalogue collages notwithstanding (the)
trader joes cauliflower bowls
and venmo and
the oneness of the banal suffering
of the consumer state
{and venmo}
when strewn clothes mold atolls on my hand,
breaths held slipping will be slipped like sugar
through fingers at the
forge striking steel and (motions)
i am the hilt in the furnace.
if i am daniel
i will know soon
and if i am not
i am but totemic
roommate’s favorite colors
sensing least favorite chores and
relative power of
dishwasher jets
scarves at the end of time (and)
feigning mock disillusionment. (think)
as if words meant something
ahora entiendo por qué tantas canciones se tratan de chicos
su piel brilla como un
oro que nunca imaginaré
mío - de anillo o de vida
o de los atardeceres donde
el sol es cautivo al verano.
agua que cae y precisamente
llene el plano sin gota adicional,
el río medio metro menos profundo
que la hija del pueblo más chica.
aretes el tamaño de sus pupilas.
el aire lo besa, alguna interacción
de físicas, lo cargo con la manera
en que él saque todo el alivio de bailar,
él se carga de susurrar a la falda
que a veces, con viento, toca los pies.
abre su boca para preservar el silencio
en ámbar, en larimar. las minas
de mi parasol anuncian su intención
de trabajar sin pago. no fingen.
quieren ser contados.
condéname a ti. busco muy poco,
solo un fracaso, solo una mirada de
(t?)error. debajo las luces de horas
desde medianoche, ocúpame. y
preocuparse, mi rayo, mi bendición.
jacob tate (he/him) is from houston and lives in brooklyn. he blames molasses books for his compulsively annoying writing but it is more likely because he listens to altogether too much ethel cain.