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Raisinets I Forgot Were In My Glovebox by Luke Janicki

I noticed the way in which paper will fold itself into curious positions when there is no one to tend it and the memoranda inscribed detach themselves altogether from this life to become objective words, that is, words that are an object: a funeral brochure quote, a nametag spelled how I call myself, a caption that is the statue itself, hard black faux leather words that look the part to me, a red script suffix denoting that they are only a substitute for something more real, the letters, flannelette, a cotton imitation of flannel; even endings are compressions misspelled for conviction’s sake, that sell the stand-in to someone who’s starving and to anyone else, sound like what sound is, which is to say that the way they were gathered together in there, the solid and the changing, kept an existence intact better than a noncommodified entity could have and felt to the touch how memories feel, namely, they tend to melt to impersonal forgetfulness and no carapace can cover what will usher itself to strangers.


Luke Janicki lives in Seattle, Washington. He has published poetry in Quarter Press, Apricot Press, Floating Bridge Press, and other publications. He has also written short-take articles for America Magazine. He holds a BA in English Literature and Spanish from Gonzaga University and an M.Ed. from the University of Notre Dame. You can find him on Twitter @luke_janicki and Instagram @lukejanicki.


Enter The Glove Box EP (Shall Not Fade) - Greta Levska


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