D. G. Zorich

To My Dearest Children

I.

Who learn nothing can forget nothing
and do so in order to protect the refuse.
The one is predicated on the other. Desires
and assumptions are more critical than the events 
    they precipitate,
the continuation of which is based
on a few seconds of unbearable tension,
of physical personality and emotional delivery,
an appearance of the appearance which a sighting
    will dispel,
the wherewithal without which (not
being capably in need of need or ability)
you can’t divine a past of supervised dying,
which is not the adventure in growing up that I
would choose to endorse: a freezer box
from which frequent explosions occasionally
    vibrated.
Limb from limb, we hand it out through you.
I remember when I was young; I just don’t
    remember
what.

II.

1.
I’m sorry, but I can’t get to the phone right now.
Your call has reached a cul-de-sac orgasm, it will
    not
be transferred, it will not be returned, you call
has been absorbed, your redials will be bled.
Thank you, from your past; your past has been
    deleted.

2.
The bath has been drained of your water. There’s
    nothing left
but the rubber ducks, a ring, and, beyond the rubber
ducks, a hole.

3. 
We are lodged in a hole at the end of a hole in order
to be, exactly, graphically, what fills what
up with itself.

4.
Make a fist. Now fill it with your imagination.
Now you have me in your hand. Now
Fuck it with your mouth.

5. 
Keep an eye on me. If I start to go under,
and you see someone drowning, shoot the bastard.

______

D. G. Zorich has attended colleges, universities, and language institutes in California and Washington state, and in Germany and France. He lives in southern California.