:: Article

Frame of House

By Samuel Ace.


How is it I came to here this rupture this rake to take me out of the stutter to use me and the cooler break better gone than good? how is it the scraggle means a school of carnal futures where I came to pardon flamingos palms and feet?


Motors and handrails fashioned from coasts care and carry me a marvel of drier times a house of magical witness but bones and bones in a forest of marks and manifest we were jealous mortals warier than I imagined a home of hunters


He came to perfectly hung

In one version of a cell the planet would roam in the rain on the left a flask (a limit) of fighting on the right a passcode to version 2 (but version 3 was where Security held a key to the tunnels) a boy in the bed in the tree (he lived in a kennel at the back of the house) passcode cursed he could not fuck until the version of he righted itself in the room his mother made him a tuna sandwich and what did she cut up and put on the plate but a sail and a slash of turquoise paint she laughed and said that’s not for you at least not now no friend no man no flask keep yourself close


He came to hollowed

Glassless and craven but only to his own he would breathe and breathe again a silent course through reason and barricades to convince the attire of a man to heal the merkin-like franchise my rutting genitals hidden away like ancient beans in a cave sunk in a tub of fluorescence and baked to fuel the passing train (a rough dressing that floats out for anyone to see the man at the table who pulls out his cock and a water bottle to pee) today I sit in front of the fire and the warmth of the day has nothing to do with the sordid nature of basements


A house so soft-shelled that once a house now a rug a dirty rug beneath a skylight of towels a bicycle with wheels so flat and pinched that once a road now a wife and cashmere sweaters stuck to every heap of the facile past my ruined partnership with grace a final rendition head thrown clear of the dock my stamp of flowers


He came to erect

Looking for a cave in which to rust blue-green a life-free house a life-free rescue maybe a hundred such futures he came looking for craving with chlorinated papers waiting for mules


So it shifts and in pursuit shifts again this mortal body of renewal and disintegration it’s like a race no? a race to rush the making of marks the tripled time it takes to run to Paris and back to ring the crater to blow the top off Popocatêpetl through the debris and ice to Paris again where he waits somewhere on Île-St-Louis eating ice cream in soft quiescence and calm while glitter settles faintly at his feet


Samuel Ace has published widely in periodicals and journals, including Ploughshares, Eoagh, Nimrod, The Prose Poem, an International Journal, and the Kenyon Review. He is a poet, photographer and educator, the author of three collections of poetry: Normal Sex (Firebrand Books), Home in three days. Don’t wash., a multimedia project of poetry, video and photography (Hard Press), and most recently Stealth, co-authored with Maureen Seaton (Chax Press). He is a recipient of a New York Foundation for the Arts grant, two-time finalist for a Lambda Literary Award in Poetry, winner of the Astraea Lesbian Writer’s Fund Prize in Poetry, The Katherine Anne Porter Prize for Fiction and the Firecracker Alternative Book Award in Poetry. He lives in Tucson, AZ and Truth or Consequences, NM.

First published in 3:AM Magazine: Thursday, May 17th, 2012.