By Jenae Janzen
39 and since the beginning there have been memos
the occasional solar autograph-signing
universe-sized, half-sketched, half-created.
then crumpled and discarded
in a blueprint wasteland larger than heaven
the angels thrown out,
2 and since the first day, copy-editors and
and the critics of their works.
3 whose Great Voice is that?
the sky is creasing, crinkling,
the bare first sign of a different timeline.
By Jenae Janzen
I work on a hunch. I’m always working on hunches. I have a hunch that if I follow a man in a green jacket into a corner store I’ll find a solution. I used the colors only in order. I colored only on the right-hand pages.
Today I realize I don’t love you. Today I realize love is only an illusion, and that I only wished to love you. Today I realize that you are only an illusion and I only wished to love you. I wanted to tell you this in person, but I had forgotten. I was too in love with the idea of love to admit this.
We’re taking the interstate. You’re driving. I’m sitting in the passenger seat, reclining, I’m holding a magazine and the directions that we printed off have slid onto the floor and gotten lost amongst the fast food wrappers and discarded clothes. I flip a page and read you advice on pleasing girls. You ask me to read you the exit you need to take instead. I put my sunglasses on.
You miss the exit. I just shrug because I don’t really care where we’re going. You yell at me to find the GPS and I hand you your backpack. You don’t like this. I don’t care.
I read you another article, and this one’s on “sex cravings,” whatever that means.
You turn on the radio, so I start talking louder. You turn up the radio. I start talking even louder. This goes on for several minutes before you nearly run off the road and that shuts us up. After too long of a silence, you see a sign for a hotel and we pull off into the parking lot.