Itís been a long way to the other side
of this Black Sabbath album.
When I was 17 a guy in a band called some kid a t-shirt.
I think I knew what he meant.
Connecticut, you couldnít help it,
my bedroom
full of dumb enormous colors.
I have had beliefs
and watched them change,
clinking my glass,
carried up the stairs.
It was not racket,
it came pure.
Krakens in my head.
The stench of their beaks.
The impossible latitudes
I nevertheless footprint.
And still, when I think I know the secret
I have only a jewel in the catís jaw.
A dictionary open to the word entropy.
Happy Birthday. Thanks for dinner.
The gap oscillates
into some still amber phantom,
that daily eventual pause
someday my fingers wonít move.


Jon Ruseski is the author of the chapbook Neon Clouds (Factory Hollow Press, 2015). Recent poems appear in jubilat, Incessant Pipe, Queen Mobís Teahouse and Divine Magnet. He lives in Northampton, MA where he co-curates the PLATFORM lecture series with Patrick Gaughan.