Appel turns his professional interest in the workings of the human mind to a narrative exploration of the reasons we tell lies.
Above the house a low sun like a wrecking ball,
the world at the horizon splintered like a Rothko
douse it douse it douse it
strike a match and freeze the scene
i’d put stickers all over the moon
and hang it from the ceiling
in the living room
For those who forego the languor of home ground, that lethal rapine of routine, the most compelling sound of the travelling life might be a ferry’s foghorn throughout the night
I’m ready for the ritual
where I get crowned a
While I sleep
journey across my bedroom floor.
In lattie we held martinis,
un-clobbered each other –
left our cats on the floor in nishta.
Every year, while the people who crowd around the Christmas Eve table might change, the chili is always just as delicious, and just as cheap to make.
Their guitars stand somewhere in an empty room on American soil
Dust spots in the sun settle on their strings
The moon will not go down again,
street lights will be on forever and drive
electricity bills into walls with no seatbelts
Photo by Joseph Pearson on Unsplash Milk Crate Malady We stumble to your home, arms linked tripping over ourselves as we talk I’m guided through the front door and down the passage to your room A lone mattress on the hardwood floor A vinyl collection spilling out of green milk crates Quick thumbs roll a cigarette we take…