Christian Guillory grew up at the edge of a swamp on a rice farm in the southern
United States and studies English Literature at Louisiana State University in Baton Rouge.

The world is our bivalve.

Consider the oyster, that
suspicious smelling bivalve.
Is that really the best we
can do? The Bard should
be given credit because that
too he da dum da dum da
dumed first. But time and
the meme ought to make
you feel more responsible.
This is also where I ought
to feel a tinge of guilt, never
yet having read a single
sentence of Darwin, not
even a sentence. But there is
time. There will be time and
world enough. You can see
how effective my guilt is. Still,
there's that succulent flesh
alarming just how much
the texture matches the look,
and then the constant threat
of pearls makes it all the more
effective. But inevitably
it's our own shells we'll chip
a tooth on — debris from the
gruff exteriors we weren't
even aware we'd concocted.
To get at our unctuous
bodies one has to pry
because (and you'd almost
think nature made us this
way for a real reason) we
have only the muscle
to bear down on ourselves

Texts that may or may not have reached you.

Did you get any of that? My phone
is loopy — not all my messages
go out. In fact it won't even let
me send a single text to my
mother, which is just ominous,
brimmed with nebulous implication.
Respond with "I'm mentally
a gang-bang" if you get this so I
know you're getting my messages

Maybe you just don't want
to hear me, but I have nothing
to confess, it's why I'm so full
of secrets. Anyway, the old
news here I was shocked
to hear is there's a third
Osborne kid. She snubbed
MTV so good for her but
she's a fashion designer,
which is just so predictable.
Haven't we all wanted to be
the movers and shakers / Of
the world for ever, it seems?
Alas, as they used to say

I suppose the world
cannot always be our oyster.
The Earth's another void
the Sun finds its way around.
Lucky Sun, it gets all the
attention, or used to
anyway. I'd rather sit here
texting you regardless

I would tell you about my
new lovers but I haven't got
any and the old ones, well
I don't know any of their
names because I'm modern,
and without even trying.
Remind me again just what
is in Guatemala for you?

Heard about the forest leeches
in Borneo, your girlfriend
told me. You two stay safe
and check behind your ears.
I've been thinking about
the childhood we spent on
farms and your idea for a
documentary about hands
and have concluded that
it's more about looking than
knowing because you never
mentioned narration which
is really cleverly always
provided no matter what
so why bother paying a
voice since it's always
pretense anyway though
that can be good too

For Runge the blue sky was
God, as well as everything
else, I've read, but he died
centuries back, before he got
it into the painting, this book
says. It's difficult to imagine
but no less plausible than that
ark of Noah's, as if all the best
things in life lack whatever
soundness is craved. I have
zip to offer epistemology

This morning I was enjoying
cold fried rice when the news
spoke of weeping in Kuala
Lumpur. A flight has "ended"
in a remote location
somewhere over the Indian
Ocean. I have put the sugar
in my coffee that I'd never
bother with in public and sit
in 9 a.m.'s deceptive sheen,
and all of the things I've felt
start to shift as if only
the thinnest of atmospheres

I will try and come to Guatemala,
or Borneo, as soon as I can
but I've made a grave decision,
to try out Latin. How
excessive, I know. If I can't
be rich I can at least waste
my time on the Roman tongue.
Seriously, you're thinking,
I should acknowledge the last
few millennia, not to mention
that mortal sin of snobbery.
But it's so hard to memorize that
which is constantly moving
and Latin is standing quite still,
in a way, like Juanita, the Inca
Ice Maiden, Lady of Ampato,
sacrificial exposure to the
Andes' cordillera, scoliotic
back bone of South America
and Guatemala too

Something about friendship
has occurred to me and I've
got it like a fragment from
the future of downed planes
we'll inevitably become.
But that's far off, we should
be allowed to imagine


I'm walking. Can you picture
this? In an elevator you
can be brought down. Is it
awkward standing still? Of
course not we have bikes.
I'm afraid I've stumbled and
even while looking down I
cannot see the ground. I'm
afraid, again. I'll drive from

You have no new messages.

Thus I am stranded for talking
to you is dehydrating, but say
I might prefer other, I'd never.
As an island washed over
by your saline tongue,
the liminal edge I can stroll
along. You lap at my feet
and disappear into the sand
as if I were only a sieve;
you're not course enough
to catch, so be it

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