“THE SEVENTH STRAIGHT DAWN” by ANDREW PURCELL

I was sleeping when the doorbell rang. Or, I should say, I was asleep, but not well asleep. Most nights it is an uncertain thing. The building where I rent an apartment has a front door that is always unlocked and then another door at the end of a lobby that locks automatically. There is no doorman, so a visitor or, I suppose, anyone looking to step out of the cold, can simply come inside as far as the lobby. But I knew only one person who would ring up at this hour, which, I saw on the clock, was quarter past five in the morning. Continue reading

FOUR POEMS by ANDREW PURCELL

TWENTY-EIGHT

It was in the winter of my twenty-eighth year and I was lost
somewhere on the isle of misunderstood wines.

The first time we met I thought almost nothing of it
but the second I remember thinking: good times in dark days.

She became a red cloud blowing through my brain,
a page from a letter in a dream, fading,
her alphabet running in circles of subtle runes. Continue reading

TWO POEMS by ANDREW PURCELL

AMERICA

 

Really, it boils down to our common Judeo-Kardashian heritage,
our appetite, the way we can suck the marrow from a potato chip

until nothing fits, not our pants, not our cultural jigsaw
pieces of jazz and cat memes, hot dogs and Zoloft,

the sugary agar we sop from our environment, our psyches
filling osmotically with an amalgam of strobe light and bubblegum. Continue reading