KEVIN PETERS


Kevin Peters is currently an undergraduate at Ohio University studying creative writing.






A Method of Harvesting

There is nothing metaphysical about soil. The water
cascades down my back while a Gregorian chant opens through holes
in the walls, a triple-beat rhythm resides in the dust that builds
a terrace up the baseboards. Somewhere, an old scarecrow clutches a
scythe, expelling grackles into frenzy. The subsidized fuel, food, and sugar
are surrounded by the brainchildren of paraffin wings. I'm attending the
conceptual wake

of festering sores in the death of the reader, a professor slumbers
while his former student recites the eulogy, no one weeps
but an acorn reduced to a future of building materials and firewood.
A woman is surreptitiously conferring with the mythology of
her relationship with her fiancé, all the while she scribbles something
profane into the wax sheen of a paperback that could only be seen
if angled at the sun in just the nondescript asexual flowers.

Why is it that when you learn something new, it begins to appear everywhere?
Peeking its head from thickets of untended industrial grains.

Her apology letter stands discarded on the desk that three men are
hauling away. Now married, sick from her patient, her future
little girl is threatened by her illness, and in an old
musty box next to the desk, an aged correspondence is uncovered,
addressed to her husband's grandmother. It reads: "I know how
disappointed you are that it was a girl, but you can't say such
things about your child."

One of the men looks at the backyard through a dirty window
upon the invasive bamboo that is encroaching upon the house.
After the wake, the ashes will be spread amongst the shoots.








Tinsel Dance on the End of Your Handlebars

Remains of a decrepit storage shed baste a toolbox and a lawnmower,
the type that were powered only by human hands, no
gasoline, just a wheel and five blades. A tontine writhes
between them, yet it is no longer real, except to the orange cat
with surreal blue eyes that watches from the dunes. The armadillo
that snoops nearby is intrinsic to memories of past arguments with tinsel.

It is about time you returned your unicycle. The one with the crooked
seat from when you attempted to jump the canyon. The orange cat
was watching that as well. You wish to be transplanted to furtive
storage units, kept forever in cobwebs so centuries later
you'll be a subject for study, like the toolbox.
Not the lawnmower though, that's old technology, or wait,
maybe thatís exactly what youíre looking for. This is why
a man can drill holes in another man's head, pouring acid
onto his brain. He just wanted someone who wouldn't leave.

Contempt is a funny thing. And so is the fragmented roof of the
caved in shed. I don't know what's combustible but
I know something unknown has something to do
with that cat's oval eyes. Genes you say, well that explains it.
In my stubbornness demeanor, I claim that it is just your
reflection in a teacup, overturned on a saucer.
I must admit that I sometimes wonder what the difference is
between smoke and fog. And then you realize that at some
point, we should all live in a dumpster for a brief period of time.








Ripples Disturbed by Stones to Make Ripples

My intentions are never interpreted the way they're intended.
I do not have a way with words, odd inflection, movements that
are mistranslated. I might be mistaken but I think
that this ache flourishing through my temples is imagination.
An old adage that pain is just an illusion, that we aren't real. A friend
once smacked his hand on his counter, open palm, a dull thud
accompanied by the clinking of dishes. There was noise. "This
is a physical act, I can feel it so it is real." "What does that mean?"
I didn't know.
Once on a quixotic car ride to a playground, one of my passengers
said that she thought that we were all in fact dead, experiencing the
consciousness of someone else. Or was I one of the passengers?
Isn't altruism an antiquated notion? I truly want to know your opinion,
this isn't rhetorical hour. Unfortunately, I have become too wide
for most swings. Can we have a moment, I'm not sure we're
in the right poem. If only I could kick this food and water habit.
Isn't that some form of imprisonment? The same as a hammer
without a nail, a pillow without a head, whatever, etcetera, etcetera.
Oh that's right, searching for something; I'm not in the mood.
In that state of being too frightened by wakefulness to
fall asleep. At this moment there are three paintings in this room,
two have been shattered, glass strewn across the floor, and the third
is a framed poster with an angelic figure staring at the moon, intact
but fragmented by cobwebs and dust.








Burgeoning Sand Paper

My tongue slivered down the nape of the
octagon glass, and I briefly felt foolish. Staring
at the resounding assemblage of cardiac pumps
reflected back at me from the mirror behind the taps.
An older man caught the visual reverberation of my eye
while I looked through the empty octagon, trying to
let the image repeat and become redundant. He didn't
seem to notice the twine tied round my head.

In this a deer went through the glass to throttle cranial
columns. There's a crest upon it. I've only known
two people to cut their eye, and it happened in the same
week, the overwrought tightening of an E-string as
the sirens watched, and walking down the stairs while
the wrestlers tumbled upwards. It's all about the eyes,
someone told me once.

Holding that shadow his wife returned, a brook stumbling
over the melting rocks. I should've added another string
to wrestle in their adobe abode, that would be something
that the blossomed would do right, because I think I feel it.
But, wallowing in casket aged brine
as the ex-patriots of a belated birthday
loop looplooplooplooplooploop
timpani in an eardrum seemed a pleasant melancholy.
What did my mother sing to me as a child for Christmas?

Jovial voices and no decorations. The bartender
reminded me of that amateur lady of ill repute films
that used to enfold herself in me above the sheets,
fully clothed, but I'd rather behold Mary Warren,
who fell in love with the student director of
the Crucible. Foolishness, regret, are headstrong
depths of shading. I'm still directing those voices
that should have abandoned the catwalk. Sassafras leaves
are no comfort for nepotism, and I'd be unaware
of such lurid discrepancies that have been
quartered in order. Farewell. Said Mary Warren
as she pretends to be catatonic when I see her lying there.



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