By Chris Carosi 

What’s deep within the purple laurels but a lack of purple after all? Pennsylvania snow on the
skin, just as flat as Ohio’s. The house is little and red and forming in my mind as I remember, the
dream is undead and wakefulness is its grave. What did George A. Romero wonder, blinking in
the Monroeville streetlight? Straw-colored light, poured through mist, through gaze, hazardously
scratched onto sight. I will always remember being young and honest and unhappy. And the
telephone had me, having to listen to my voice. Admit it, you’re taken. Residential like that:
being listened to. I veer nomadic now, Citizens Bank sucked all the kelly green from the grass
and that’s why it’s all white, and I walk like a cup being pushed off the edge of a countertop. The
snow heavily resists my foot charge as I stalk in pain. Nothing can be wrong, except anger. What
anger says, love forgets. Bless the minimal of the child, who is only concentrating on something
as it is, as feeling. Not to overthrow intellect but to name it, representation, the image, train cars
and all that shit. It’s not real, that’s the thing the child knows. The indefinable, cut and bleeding,

Chris Carosi grew up in a small town outside of Pittsburgh along the Ohio border. He is the author of three chapbooks, most recently Funerals and otherspublished by his micropress Inverted Church.