:: Article


By Greg Nissan.

per/sonal 46

It’s not
you, it’s
me. It’s You
It’s not
it’s me
-at. It’s
a pain
ting of
cript, soon
to feat
ure on
butter pack
-aging. It’s
not me
-an, it’s
just. It’s just
ice, don’t s
lip. It’s not
you it’s u
a call
a caul
of rip
ples rip
ping in
to lit
tler rip
ples, or
igin unk
noun. More
verbiage? M
-ore st
-ream’s plum
-ing said
-iment than
plumage? It’s
not eit
her one
of us.
It’s the
of our
I th
ink I sm
ell anis,
another rit
ual, anot
her rich
milf, milk
-rich, hy
perlinks the
blue veins
of her breast
It’s not me,
it’s me
it’s pain
tings of ana
breasts, pearl
-pale, or
the labyr
-nth of a pix
el of a nip
ple mid-suc
kle. It’s the
Klimt-y shine
of golden
clits un
der floo
d-lights, buffe
ring on her
ring finger. It’s
not yo
u, it’s
us, the US
I mean, I mea
-n come on, mea
culpa, we’re
all rep
ressed right?
Genitals repo
sessed by
the govern
t? Don
‘t cry. I’m
not some don
juan, I don
‘t even
get t
he reference.
It’s not you
it’s me
-mes, gran
ular text
as a jpeg pl
-us a thong
-estuaried der
-riere. I
mean, com
e on, it’s
been eons
of repres
sion, right,
I’ve got more
than one
scion in
my elm.
It’s not y
ou, it’s u
vula. Smile
for the end
orsement, platin
-um yawn
after yawn.
I lik
e ‘em with
the lawn
cropped an
d, well,
you never
did that?
I guess I sh
ould’ve asked,
but that’d be
sexist, yo
ur-body, your
joys, right?
But it’s
me, I me
-an, I’m
fucked up,
my whole
cupola’s ver
NYT wrote
it was
the fir
-st kn
own self-i
August. I mea
-n, doesn’t
that make yo
u want to ab
scond from
-hing? Let’s
bow our
heads for a
moment of

per/sonal 45

against conch,
he sought
-digris dream
of thighs piston,
yoga pants or
the resto
ration’s sali
vary g
-listen. Again
st podi
-um she
sought opt
ion, rol
ling her
voice up a
looked not
hing like IRL
-and, tongue
printing an amp
ersand on
the beach
of her thigh.
Along a
clouds. Ionic
columns barc
oded from Rom
e. An aste
risk pierced
onto the TV
tower. Notes
toward the
Big Poem, ch
eeks flush
with Aeolus
-t. To
ward off the
Big Poem,
notes, ass cleft
like came
ra lens, chi
mera Mir
anda said, corr
ecting the
Tried to cl
imb into the
word and found
a riad
—woven stone
the courtyard
drones. Still
a faç
ade, just an
inner façade,
gnomons of
our de
sign sha
ding h
edges, a spigot
droning the
woven tone
of molec
-auldron mis
sing ocean.
Trod to c
limn ins
ide a wor
d, search
ing somet
hing damp
and un
animous like
the puss of a
cockroach, but
found empty
slots, heads t
-urning, the
-gated night
between systole
and diastole
and triastole
of the clock
-tone. Graves
-tone. Overt
-one, s/he
a moan
Emptied a
mixed in
the hash,
torched it, c
lipped the
first letter
ashing after
every d
rag. Against
the/y sought
a wind
-ow grate
of wrought
iron like
a gra
ph, slat
ting sigh
-t’s phone
-mes for
th and b
ack. Sign
to sigh, sum
to sun
-burn, um
to um
bra all
nipples sha
ding th
icker ding
ding t/hey th
ink con
tours of
das nipp
led Ding
wind’s fing
ers piqued
from pen
-umbra to p
ink blot
lips limn
a Munch-like
cut of wood
n’t you like
to k
now now n

Greg Nissan is a writer and translator living in Berlin, where he spent the last year working on a documentary poetry project as part of a Fulbright grant. His poetry has appeared in or is forthcoming from Denver Quarterly, Rogue Agent, Small Po[r]tions, and Theme Can. He has translated the poetry of Ann Cotten and Uljana Wolf.

First published in 3:AM Magazine: Sunday, January 15th, 2017.