Philip Kobylarz


Bad wallpaper, an interwoven bizzarity of fleur de lis and floral what nots, peeling in the corners, finger-denuded by the light switch, unable to conceal the cracks in the walls. It used to be a salon, when people did that kind of thing, met and talked and used the china that was now in boxes under the stairs. And smoked enough to cover the white ceiling with a thin paste of gray, impossible to ever scrub away. Decades of inhabited years passed by, inconsequential guests who worked, put up with unbearable jobs, ate lengthy meals, watched t.v. shows that still hang around in reruns, and fucked quietly and sincerely, as to not involve the neighbors. Funny how the years change the same way. The amazement in rain, especially as it darkens buildings and makes them look both new, freshly painted, and as ancient as Roman bridges. Money put in the bank stays the same. Blood from a finger nicked on a broken window that looks out onto the street where people are walking, talking, holding leashed dogs, soon to leave shit sculptures on the sidewalk, or carrying loaves of fresh bread with the tips ripped off, eaten.

RECENT WORK OF PHILIP KOBYLARZ appears or will appear in Connecticut Review, Basalt, Santa Fe Literary Review, New American Writing, Poetry Salzburg Review and has appeared in Best American Poetry. His book, Rues, was published by Blue Light Press of San Francisco.



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