— There’s nothing wrong with the Pope’s penis or the Pope himself, both are overrated carbon matters made important by his Catholic aura. If thought biochemically, it’s not much different from the vagina of the nuns, who you, nonetheless, never question, assuming they’re women, that they indeed are, subordinate to the delicate clapper at the centre of a bell. It is…
My Yard Becomes the Apollo Theater by Paula Weld-Cary
— I tossed a handful of peanuts into my backyard attracting a trio of jays, screeching, screeching, to my window where liquid notes spilled from their throats as if from saxophones: Salt Peanuts, Salt Peanuts, they sang from slender twigs, their kews and jrrs and green arpeggios reminding me of Gillespie and Parker and Powell: Bebop and mimicry, sweet improvisation mixed…
Tell me something
— Tell me something I don’t know. Everyone who holds the line is not brave, and everyone who gazes over channels is not a dreamer. And I am neither. I am eating paper in the back of a dark cab and filing through phonemes. The girl in my past who slept near a mummy was another version of me. The boy in your past…
Poem with Fingerprints by Ryler Dustin
— Here’s a poem dark with fingerprints, all the fingerprints that touched the paper it’s on and made the machines that took the pulp that had once been wood held by gloves with secret sweating fingerprints inside. Here’s a poem dark with the prints of hands that made the machines that made the machines that fitted, chiseled, greased and glowed until these words were…
Typographical Sentences
— Geometrical regularity and a line full of nudes and an alphabet we could dance to and come together oh why don’t you come on one two three one two three. It’s rhythmic, the way we are, serifed sans serif darlings in a row. When you took me to Georgia we spun in circles, we learned to curl to the right and be soundless…