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markcugini : 
 
  SUMMER OF STRANDS  
 Somebody please put a hand up and tell the truth: I may or may not be the best pillow you’ve been lost in. What can I say, I am dealing in miracles, meterage left for dream. You call it beauty, I call it blue—sure, the taste for both is in my mouth a little. In the reflecting pool, I make more vanity: I make us into a parable; I make you into a prayer; I make us come once like white mornings, and then I make myself into a monument. Who honestly expects to find anything real outside? Not me. If the trees were beautiful enough for us all, then happiness would be free and I would be a new epidemic. I shopped for the immaculate, like a train pulling into a station, steam rose up to greet us and then it was new. So, how much can I offer you? What else can we invent when we’re awake in this mausoleum? The last time you touched me, your hand skimmed my edge like a stone– that was all of the gravity I could muster. Not every siren applies to you, and this is a good thing, but it is also a shame. 
 
 Hi I wrote these poems with my friend  Zoe Dzunko  and now you can read them at  The Fanzine . They’re from a book we’re writing called SUMMER OF SUMMERS. To me, it’s about the women I dated when I hated New York; to Zoe, it’s about something entirely different. Thank you Giuliani, thank you Joe Young. 

markcugini:

SUMMER OF STRANDS

Somebody please put a hand up
and tell the truth: I may or may not
be the best pillow you’ve been
lost in. What can I say, I am
dealing in miracles, meterage
left for dream. You call it beauty,
I call it blue—sure, the taste
for both is in my mouth
a little. In the reflecting pool,
I make more vanity: I make
us into a parable; I make you
into a prayer; I make us come
once like white mornings, and
then I make myself into
a monument. Who honestly
expects to find anything real
outside? Not me. If the trees
were beautiful enough for us all,
then happiness would be free and
I would be a new epidemic. I shopped
for the immaculate, like a train
pulling into a station, steam
rose up to greet us and then
it was new. So, how much
can I offer you? What else
can we invent when we’re
awake in this mausoleum?
The last time you
touched me, your hand
skimmed my edge like a stone–
that was all of the gravity
I could muster. Not every siren
applies to you, and this is a
good thing, but it is also a shame.

Hi I wrote these poems with my friend Zoe Dzunko and now you can read them at The Fanzine. They’re from a book we’re writing called SUMMER OF SUMMERS. To me, it’s about the women I dated when I hated New York; to Zoe, it’s about something entirely different. Thank you Giuliani, thank you Joe Young.