The past was fun, wasn’t it? – by Aaron Prestrud

 In the blinding moon

I put on my socks


The fiery morning awakes

Grey and white


Dear Duncan,

Get your head out of your ass

Asheville is a poor parent




The split is painful,

though the blind cannot feel


A flurry of red escapes South

the cardinal joins his cousins


The banshee sun

screams overhead

till bloody sunset


The rose blushes

A beautiful wound




Down past Cullowhee

We ride the silent rocket


Where do the meteors lead?

Follow them through


vast crowded pines

On a carpet of needles



And the forest is asleep


The winter is long.

Travel slowly




The polo player was

hit in the face

He sewed it up

with a vet’s needle


its after midnight again

and the thoughts

course through like heroin


These towns are time capsules


We kissed

and I passed out

with the light still on.




Lilacs shelter worms on the soggy driveway

from the downspout’s pounding trickle


As I get the rain-soaked paper

Grandpa slippers squeak on hardwood


Sunday comics hanging

over chairs to dry


Slats of yellow light shine

through egg yolk pink fog


Wake up, Alex

Its 9 o’clock


Everything is better in the morning