RIP Winston Smith
The Theory and Practice of Oligarchical Collectivism (Part 2, Chapter 9)
it means also the ability to BELIEVE that black is white, and more, to KNOW that black is white,
and to forget that one has ever believed the contrary.
We are dates carved in stone,
a sky tumbling to earth
ready to burn it down
watch the moon turn dark red,
become smoke spilling into rivers
flowing to an endless ocean.
Longing is a tree, deep rooted
and heaven-bound,
everything is measured;
sadness, silence,
the distance between loss
and redemption.
• • •
RIP Winston Smith
O’Brien is Everyone’s Ghost
She tells him sunset is the wrong side of the tracks
wears a crucifix under her work shirt, this city’s for
the dead, the dying and the scarred, he tells her he
wants to be baptized, buried and forgotten, the way
she holds his hand reminds him of a recurring dream,
Winston waits for her to say anything, utters the first
seven words of the Apostle’s Creed, penance is hard
to swallow, no longer allowed, an unnecessary evil
and he feels like Cain, feels like Abel, feels like ___,
Julia stretches, breathes onetwothree, lays her hand
on his chest, there’s a knock at the door.
• • •
RIP Winston Smith
Secret Meeting in the Countryside
The sun unravels, it’s a ribbon of light, her bones feel
the weight of surrender, the last time she saw him it was
springfallwinter, the middle of war or the last gasps from
peace, Julia can’t remember, it’s not amnesia it’s a razor
blade of grass, a shard of sky stuck in the tread of her boot
she only feels at home when trespassing, wants to turn into
a fairytale, a made-up story with no middle, ending simply
one inevitable beginning, she’s ruined, sorry she’s missed
him if only she could remember, remember the flight, how
to be frightened of death again, the crush of truthliesdouble
speak rattling like tubercular lungs, when they were in love
there were possibilities, there was a starting gun, scorecards
smudged with x’s, o’s, she puts on her shirt, stirs her drink,
shadows crash on their unmade bed, wherever he is there
will be remembering, there will be a new myth, a safe bet,
a mistake waiting to be made.
• • •
Alex Stolis lives in Minneapolis; he has had poems published in numerous journals. The full length collection, Postcards from the Knife-Thrower was runner up for the Moon City Poetry Prize in 2017. Two full length collections Pop. 1280, and John Berryman Died Here were released by Cyberwit and available on Amazon. His work has previously appeared or is forthcoming in Piker’s Press, Jasper’s Folly Poetry Journal, One Art Poetry, Black Moon Magazine, and Star 82 Review. His chapbook, Postcards from the Knife-Thrower’s Wife is forthcoming from Louisiana Literature Press in 2024.