Olympia
Real love. Unsparing introspection
Oh, for heaven’s sake
fucking ____________________ .
- Jennifer
- You (& Jennifer)
- Jack the Modernist
- Veronica, Ted, Sabalenka, Sailor Socialism
- the museum goers at The Frick,
a poem for trapped things, the solar anus
the girl whose lips
are like
the last helicopter
out of Saigon
O lose the noise
you’re going to be all right
go home, spoon the Hitachi
blackmatter
Berkshire Hathaway
Dear Cinnette,
did on you obtain cheap land, seek fortune,
join a religious community—
I’m taking the kitchen sink approach
Where do the coordinates lead…
Delia Deetz died.
The Lily Jean sank off the coast of Gloucester.
The streets are draped in anti-drone nets.
Today, when I was looking at the clouds
I remembered how Leni Riefenstahl attached automatic cameras to balloons.
I want to fall in love
with a blind flower girl
who mistakes me
for a millionaire.
Even the Automobiles Here Seem to Be Ancient
Dear Cinnette, I grew tired of the world
at the Braintree split
but there’s no shepherdess in sight
the ice floes on the Merrimack look like wounded angels
Dear Cinnette, the sun’s fixed stare expresses something beyond death
I’m letting my beard grow
Let’s just say
your period
is the ultimate form of punctuation
Which one of your phone calls changed my life fuck
it
I’m raising a toast to Odin
and the beauty of Japanese volcanoes
Last I heard you hitched a ride to Salt Lake
O Madonna
of the Trail—
Dear Cinnette, Infinite Jest turned 30
Sabalenka was penalized for a midpoint grunt
I saw a woman at Stop & Stop
buying avocados
like it’s 2010
I heard Thom bit off a prostitute’s toe in Prague
I’m high on benzos godspark
Dear Cinnette Il faut être absolument modern
Did you know in 1955
Friehofer’s still used horse drawn carts
to deliver baked goods in Schenectady—
Imagine if your whole job was putting cherries on cupcakes
Imagine if our midpoint grunt went on forever.
Dobermann
If you said all I do is write love poems
I’d say I’m solving the crisis of panty lines
but that’s just another comedy
for our conspiracy
theory
age
Again the snow is scatterbrained
millions of individual
amens
and I’m thinking
about the time
we had sex at the Tate Modern
If you said it was like a love poem
featuring Rouveyre’s car and several Soviet bikers
I’d say
look at the charm of the industrial streets.
Fun is a steel bath in Mitteleuropa,
your tongue like a menacing dobermann.
MALMO
it feels very intimate, very private
being an author and a character simultaneously
like a crowd of people
at the beach
screaming shark! Shark!
Quite unlike the Oulipians
who organize their internet novels
by color
fake barn country
the IKEA back catalogue.
Dear Cinnette,
I prefer the dark arts
“So we shall take the train here to MALMO,
then get into the car
and drive home to our house,
and all the way I shall revel in,
truly revel in”
how we used to smoke
in bed on Sundays
and read The Boston Globe,
Akhmatova, Letters to a Young Poet,
the cat purring like
a bloom of chocolate,
mirrors caressing the room
and the sense of things
careening
towards
a head
still a long
way
off
like a seizure
on a boat
in the middle of the sea
Damon Hubbs is a poet from New England. His latest collection, Bullet Pudding, is forthcoming from Roadside Press in 2026. Recent publications include Horror Sleaze Trash, Apocalypse Confidential, Be About It Press, Revolution John, The Literary Underground, RESSURECTION magazine, and others. His poems have been nominated for the Pushcart and Best of the Net. He is a poetry editor at Blood+Honey and The Argyle Literary Magazine. bluesky: @hubbsd.bsky.social
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