Now That's What I Call Alternative Literature

volume 1
volume 2

'6-3 11:41 AM' BY SCOT KRAVE

I hold you in the rain of corrugated steel and fence posts
with my fingertips pressing gentle correlations into beaded leather

together we slide our feet along the urban iditarod
and offer matches to strangers while eating free popcorn and wearing musty ties.
neighbors see hunched blankets and glowing cherries
and hear the clink of martinis mending the missing pieces
of board games with golf pencils.
I’m a loser every time but it doesn’t matter with you

later those are the kisses I blow toward the ceiling of
white vinyl LPs, waning moons and daisies with the bottom half
of their petals fallen into whimsy and chippings

hailing a cab like we never do, drunk as we never are,
with swollen hearts like we always have, we mend wounds
before they happen with secrets we almost forgot until that moment
when we discover that abandoned hopes were just in storage

we would j walk with friends but they
are under a million sheets of air
and curled up in car trunks and fucking any scent of fascism into oblivion
and thereby themselves receiving the fuck of a lifetime
on top of the hancock or in the bloody
piss-ridden meal plate of an automobile

you breath at a pace that sets an orchestra, piu andante,
allegro non troppo ma con brio, breaking the grumble of air travel
so it falls through us like waves that wash up dreams
on the fringes of our toasted skin


scott krave lives in sweet new england where he presses his face up against cold windows in the morning in autumn to try to feel the day. he wrote a chapbook called bone smoke and another called beaches of the big north is coming soon.

tags: Scot Krave