Reasons to Survive November\u201d
\n                  
\n                  November like a train wreck
\n                  as if a locomotive made of cold
\n                  had hurtled out of Canada
\n                  and crashed into a million trees,
\n                  flaming the leaves, setting the woods on fire.
\n                  
\n                  The sky is a thick, cold gauze
\n                  but there’s a soup special at the Waffle House downtown,
\n                  and the Jack Parsons show is up at the museum,
\n                  full of luminous red barns.
\n                  
\n                  Or maybe I’ll visit beautiful Donna,
\n                  the kickboxing queen from Santa Fe,
\n                  and roll around in her foldout bed.
\n                  
\n                  I know there are some people out there
\n                  who think I am supposed to end up
\n                in a room by myself
\n                  
\n                  with a gun and a bottle full of hate,
\n                  a locked door and my slack mouth open
\n          like a disconnected phone.
\n                  
\n                  But I hate those people back
\n                  from the core of my donkey soul
\n                  and the hatred makes me strong
\n                  and my survival is their failure,
\n                  
\n                  and my happiness would kill them
\n                  so I shove joy like a knife
\n                  into my own heart over and over
\n                  
\n                  and I force myself toward pleasure,
\n                  and I love this November life
\n                  where I run like a train
\n                  deeper and deeper
\n                  into the land of my enemies.
\n                  
\n                  — Tony Hoagland<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n\n\n\n\n\n\n

The Movement of a Caravan over the Landscape<\/span>\n<\/td>\n	\n<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
\nby Sarah Manguso\n<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
\n That we rode harder into the wind, \nThat the story got told, \nThat the broken candies were eaten first, \nThat they were eaten last, \nThat all subjects grew extinct eventually, \nThat in the inn I ruined our lives, \nThat in the barn I tried to save them, \nThat I failed, \nThat per Fitzgerald the manner remains intact for some time after \n<\/em>the morale cracks, \n<\/em>That in the interregna <\/em> all suffer equally, \nThat the languages we are born ready to speak leave us one by one, \nThat unless we\u2019re actively procreating we\u2019re acting metaphorically, \nThat I\u2019ve never been to France, \nThat I\u2019ve been to Ohio, \nThat I remember almost nothing I did there, \nThat it is meaningless to say I liked that, \n<\/em>That emotions accumulate into a few categories, \nThat each new one is itself plus everything like itself, \n<\/em>That when animals act like people we love them more, \nThat when they do we want them never to stop, \nThat we give them the names we wish we had, \nThat men have children and manufacture new mothers, \nThat I anticipate escaping my fate or not, \nThat I anticipate the future by never buying groceries, \nThat I know the flesh is incidental but keep so many photographs, \nThat the story gets told, \nThat it was the reason for these various movements.<\/p>\n<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n<\/tbody>\n<\/table>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Reasons to Survive November\u201d                                      November like a train wreck                   as if a locomotive made of cold                   had hurtled out of Canada           <\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":false,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","default_image_id":0,"font":"","enabled":false},"version":2}},"categories":[1],"tags":[45],"class_list":["post-427","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-uncategorized","tag-poetry"],"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p1DIlZ-6T","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack-related-posts":[],"jetpack_likes_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/lindsaykeegan.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/427","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/lindsaykeegan.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/lindsaykeegan.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lindsaykeegan.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lindsaykeegan.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=427"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/lindsaykeegan.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/427\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/lindsaykeegan.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=427"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lindsaykeegan.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=427"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lindsaykeegan.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=427"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}