What Direction Now? Life at the intersection…

We Can Pickle That


Ukraine-cold outside, scolding the bride for showing too much in her winter wedding gear, here this, my friends, the end is high, time’s a truly tall order and ordinary sandwiches have so little to look forward to, swallow the sword but spit out the knuckles, chuckling like a broken banshee whose shriek has shrunk to the size of a seed, lodged in the translucent throat, you can see it all, so clear it out with two fingers and then check for air, spare the change that you want to bleed in this world, and turn the tilt-a-whirl on its head so that it spins so for once, jump the line if you dare, dying hair whisps a last gasp before whipping the wind for being naughty naughty, shoddy imitation ink blots caught blue-handed with no fingers pointing from you to me, and meet the neighbors gently spending solitary situation street in tweeting, speeding wreathes down from the door, to save the poor mother from insanity at the hands of jangled bells, what nerve you have, my dear, to show your face without the fear of smiling, heightening the horseradish until the sting subsists on little more that spit, sitting sort of cock-eyed but not hungry quite yet, I’m afraid, cordially invited to the pants party pushing port on people who only want to drink beer, hear the ssst as the twist-off cap tabs you as uncouth, and be sure not to put two o’s in uncooth or else I’ll be reminded of dentures and the detritis of the deep, that is, the swelling of the deter and not the garbage, definitely no u, no You hang up or else I’ll never sleep and my knees will freeze from kneeling—does “kneel” come from “knee”? Someone say, yes—and I’ll be a terrible host of tomorrow’s quest for yet another simple plan, spanning the Supermans, and men who stoop to levels unknown, unown the truck and hand over the keys to show that I understand the stood-up and the laid-down, mown over, rooted, horn shooting toots, spouter spots, potting the potter, and postulating the di-verse from the vantage of our own little uni, and you need to see these extra colors outside as the best possible environment, bi-ing the singles and spending so very much spare change to get back home, only to find it Ukraine-cold and strained.
{This easter egg has been removed for pickling…yum!}

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What Direction Now? Life at the intersection…

About Andrew.

Andrew Cartwright grew up in Indianapolis, IN, but has lived over the years in such places as Denver, CO; Fairfax, VA; and Rivne, Ukraine. He is a former nonfiction editor for both Indiana Review and phoebe; he has also worked for the intersectional feminist journal, So To Speak, and the national literary magazine, Electric Literature. His work has appeared in The Normal School Online, Copper Nickel, Esquire Ukraine, Literary Hub, and Word Riot.

For more information about me and links to other writing, visit my author page at cartwriter.com





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