Adam Eckstein




The onslaught of fall,

young eyes watch leaves tumble down,

"quick mom, more scotch tape."




my devil spoke to an undescribed liar

hidden between foggy words and soupy meanings.

evil got so confused, it ended up doing right

and the liar's speech made it seem fine.

my devil spoke to a dead ex-president

(a Nixon, or a Grant, or an Eisenhower)

and he got so confused he couldn't tell

the past from the present.

my devil spoke to a new-born man,

dying of a caffeine overdose,

and he got so confused between

tragedy and work.

and work and life.

evil got so confused it told me good;

and my devil got so confused

he began to cry,

and i held my devil like a father would,

and said, "there, there."

Reflecting on a Bridge-

It all seems shaky to me,

height and altitude towering

over traveling, watery pictures

of me filled with protruding

columns, like upside-down legs

surrendering to the sky.

I remember that I used to

measure distance in "light years"

of safety; like we're eight-minutes

safe from the sun, as we stand

on gravity's legs. I am 3/8 milliseconds

safe from that crystal water.

But as I stand down

the height of the bridge,

the light bouncing back between

me and the water, I wonder,

"who is this 'light year' protecting,

me or my reflection?"




silent touch of lips.

one million words not spoken

quickly disappear

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