Aaron Fa­gan

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Wait­ing for the fu­ture to come full cir­cle so I can say I told you so, Cur­rently, I’m stand­ing in sun­shine so bright I can barely open my eyes. And it’s so lovely and warm. On a day like to­day, it would be awk­ward And fun to be some­one else. At each and ev­ery turn, isn’t it re­fine­ment That draws us in—the art of say­ing noth­ing in vast per­mu­ta­tions of logic And chance, smear­ing mean­ing thin across time and ac­count­abil­ity? Ev­ery­body knows, that’s how busi­ness grows. You are al­ready too late To say what you meant, I say to my­self, so I read out loud to her. In­side the book of art, a girl in a photo holds up a piece of pa­per that says, ‘The whole world is on fire and the milk from my tits tastes like kerosene.’ She tells me to spit in her mouth for the first time. Only the ro­man­tic dies For­ever and is, there­fore, im­mor­tal. Turn­ing back to the book, the artist Says, ‘Hey, can I use these pic­tures of you in my book?’ and a girl says, ‘I’m only okay with you us­ing that photo if you ti­tle it, “the sweet­est Tight­est most mag­i­cal pussy that I ate all day every­day for a week Then left it to dry out like a dead cat on the side of the road.”’ No one will ever know or care that I went out search­ing for hours With a flash­light in the storm, mak­ing pass af­ter pass, across the mile Be­tween the barn and home where I stopped, gave up, looked Down, and saw her ear­ring shin­ing through the snow, which is why It’s hard to hear you say I don’t know the first thing about love.

Po­etry Com­pe­ti­tion Sec­ond Place 2016

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