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Poetry

2 Poems by Jeff Pearson

Sing Me the Song

after John Lyon

When the exiled pioneers stared at the Salt Lake Valley, they drank clean air. A sky framed by Nature’s Bulwark presumed their own. They slept in the open next to trees in the crux of the canyon, and night came. An armistice with ground, as each fire began to smell less and less like Buffalo chips. Crowded by the grid system, I search for a street where I am not spied on by a steeple. Imperfect Zion sleeping in Pioneer Park.

Nor the Sound of pollution voice is heard?

I am the visitor, welcome on the back row with handshake full of grease brought again to sacrament meeting. Ceiling fans spin backward the longer I stare. Hymnodic. I remember as a kid, a deacon, I once put Sprite in the cups for sacrament’s water. Nursery tastes like blessings.

But where shall we find this fairy vale
Where the naked are clothed and the hungry fed Continue reading “2 Poems by Jeff Pearson”

Labyrinth Song by Lucy Whitehead

Labyrinth Song

Not everyone enters
their maze on a mission.
Some of us wake one day
curled inside a darkness
that stretches in all directions
for countless miles         caught
in a lacework cage reaching
beyond years.

…………………Ever winding
we wander half blind
through rotting corridors
searching for signs of life
stumbling over pits that beckon
beneath wearied feet
in the yawning velvet dark

wrestling
with dead ends that glint
with knives and chains
slamming shut doors
that open silently
into nothingness

…………………chasing golden
voices not our own over
floors that sharpen suddenly
into spikes         through
mirrored courtyards where
we glimpse our aging faces
catch sad minotaurs
behind our eyes.

We become adept
at surviving         stripped
of all but our existence
at times      weaving
the gleaming edges of pain
into armour and amulets
fortifying our bones Continue reading “Labyrinth Song by Lucy Whitehead”

2 Poems by Kevin R. Farrell, Jr.

Just a Thought

For the warming comfort of snow,
to thaw that which has been left frigid,

to repress is to die,
refrain and move on,

this is life persisting,
death meanders on,

run ragged,
pursue more,

a salivating void of all emotion,
numb to escape,

place distance between what happened
and any attachment to it,

two contradictory planes of existence,
abandon “your” self, rid the vessel of “my” anything, Continue reading “2 Poems by Kevin R. Farrell, Jr.”

La Brea by Sarah Neilson

You and I, we should go to the tar pits. Let’s stare at what was once life. We’ll inch closer together, becoming one creature, an unconscious attempt to metastasize in the face of ancient grandeur. I’ll wonder if they – the mastodons – ever thought about the end of the world. You and I do, all the time, but alone. Doomsday would take on the lure of a sunset if we endured it together, I’m convinced.

A conversation I sometimes imagine begins:

I’m so glad you take care of yourself. My father died when he was younger than you.

More staring at life.

I’m so sorry, you’ll say. Doesn’t everyone start there? But you’ll mean it, understand it, because,

You know my mother – you’ll begin.

I know, I’ll say, her death unspoken. Continue reading “La Brea by Sarah Neilson”

2 Poems by Yuan Changming

Hocus Pocus

This [bread] is no other than

Jesus’ flesh

This [horse’s open mouth] is

Vaisvanara

This [word] has

A magic power

This [fish head] brings

Courage & posterity

This [fluid] cures

All diseases

This [sequence of syllables] drives away

All evils & devils

This [ritual] ensures

Good weather & good harvest

This [hat/hood] guarantees

Purity, loyalty

This [flag] leads right

To paradise

This [man] is Continue reading “2 Poems by Yuan Changming”

The Forever Tree by Kyla Houbolt

The Great Also,
the Forever Tree: and maybe it’s always
synesthesia, like, look how this word
FREE is green, like GREEN only
blown open by a wind first and
then a fire, not closed off
like the edge of a crayon where
someone (who?)
is tempted to think color just stops, boxed
into its predictable shape
at the factory. You’re not
tempted, are you?

(On a lamp post in the middle of the bridge,
a piece of green tape, and hand penciled,
“the factory is out of control”) Yes,
I’m tempted, always tempted to believe
edges like that must
enclose and exclude. For
example, you’re out there, invisible, and I’m
in here, writing this.

But the Great Also, in the details
where everything numbingly the same
is stunningly various, and vice versa, secretly
runs the out-of-control factory. Yes? Continue reading “The Forever Tree by Kyla Houbolt”

3 Poems by Anna Kahn

Considerations for Maze-Building/Determining an Appropriate Level of Guilt Upon Leaving Someone I Do Not Love

1) The intention of the maze is to disrupt
the intuition of the traveller as frequently
as possible // how often did they hand me the map?
Was I asked politely to navigate? Told?

Permitted? 2) At a fork where within sight
one path branches again and the other does not,
the traveller will assume the branched path is correct.
How convincing the wrong turns should be made Continue reading “3 Poems by Anna Kahn”

BILL MORAN AND WILLIAM BRIAN SAIN PERFORM FOR SPEECH THERAPY NOTTINGHAM 27/11/2019 HOSTED/FILMED BY MIGGY ANGEL

Were incredibly blessed to welcome back the one and only Bill Moran to Speech Therapy after his legendary performance in 2017 – this time accompanied by the amazing William Brian Sain – two of the soundest souls in the whole of poetry – below is filmed footage of the full 30min headline set – a seance with the songs and sutures of soil and sinue – Massive thanks to all who braved the cold and stayed to the end to have heart-stones warmed by the powerful words. Enjoy xX

Continue reading “BILL MORAN AND WILLIAM BRIAN SAIN PERFORM FOR SPEECH THERAPY NOTTINGHAM 27/11/2019 HOSTED/FILMED BY MIGGY ANGEL”

“Cryptocerebral Digital” by Joseph Ellison Brockway

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Art by Moriah M. Mylod

Cryptocerebral Digital - CropHIGHresolution

 

Joseph Ellison Brockway is a poet, translator, and Spanish professor. He likes to juxtapose words and signs to disrupt the language on the page and to disturb the reader’s thoughts. Many of his poems also experiment with ideas and images that explore the human psyche and existence. Joseph’s poetry has recently been published in L’Éphémère ReviewMoonchild MagazineSurVision Magazine, and Surreal Poetics. He can be found roaming the socialmediaverse at @JosephEBrockway.

womannotated – Dollhouse Architect

 

Dollhouse Architect

Blueprinted girl rolled out wide to inspect

already torn, no one protects —  and why

should this one be tasked to care or respect,

question a purpose plans specify Continue reading “womannotated – Dollhouse Architect”

“While My Widow Searches the Clouds for a Sign” by Kymm Coveney

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Art by Moriah M. Mylod

I was told (who told me? what voice?) to imagine
a porthole, to focus across the blue. Wait

for the glare of clarity to abate, subdue it.

Acknowledge the blue, it said, like breathing
used to be. It will be cold, like the first snow,
as you ease yourself across. There is the sea.
Concentrate. I become my focus, which is her.

She watches the sky (I remember the sky). I don’t

see her, it is not sight, yet she’s there on the terrace
watching the clouds, seeing vertebrae.

The voice says, It’s like blowing. I remember
breathing, taking in a deep breath. The thought,
or what sounds like a thought, makes me smile.
(A smile is just a metaphor now.)    Focus.

I’m entranced with the mirror image. I need the sea

for practice. She’s searching for letters – an L – but clouds

are untamable, they stand on end, wisps

trailing away into a spider’s thread that I follow (again,

a metaphor) in wonder (now I know wonder)

and she is no longer on the terrace, no longer

looking, though her ache crimsons the scent

of pine and honeysuckle. I translate touch, sound,

sight, want, pain. She is trying to translate, but knows

only blue, sea. Sees only vertebrae, thinks I don’t hear.
 

I resist dissipation. I dally, imagining our two mists

mingling (what sex used to be?), though I’m becoming
wisp already. Her every thought like a blood-red

light flashing in the empty blue.    Listen.

Kymm Coveney was born in Boston and has lived in Spain since the 1982 World Cup. Some poems are in Under the RadarProle, and The Interpreter’s House. Several flash pieces reside at 101Fiction. Online translations include a poem at Surreal Poetics and a short story at Palabras Errantes.

Blog: BetterLies Twitter: @KymmInBarcelona.

3 Poems by Melissa Eleftherion

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Art by Moriah M. Mylod

 

conch/sea

 

I am and I become

abecedarian as a personal charm

to am and become

to be and become

remind me     to be light

 

inside each memory egg a gold inlay of an incident

how the brain compartmentalizes like a chambered nautilus

yet it is all one sand – the brain distinguishes one from the other to understand

 

i’ve made a career of privacy and compartmentalized objects 

i’ve made a career of my traumas

 

what is privacy here with all exposed and sifting over one another in an endless span

how much of privacy or keeping secret is wrapped up in fears around judgement 

light exposures popping up – the privacy book the mean latitudes of reason 

 

a wish to bold concave belly flesh        shoulders wrapped in marbled warscape  

a wish to stand tall to withstand the seas at the door

 

i biked all over town in the early dawn popping off light exposures drunk on tall boys and crashed into a lexus

 

the me then the me

mortal rigor         in the fountain        in the landscape chasm

 

conch/sea 

to rack focus like an aperture to let light in

object/frame             stillness among the raging

 

majestic orifice right there

alate lion in the yard 

 

these death energetics 

i swallow hieroglyphs like a carceral bee 

fires all around the island in a glacial crisis

war on my nerves a pallor a fungus 

the lens    has holes in it 

a disintegration of the ephemeral 

 

the segmented abdomen becomes integrated 

losing its segments         as an insect ages 

cerci wave in weapons of copulation

wingless among the deciduous

 

the sense making 

malicious octopus reticular trap

alphabet laughter in the yarrow

 

when you become the lens itself

so the pallor is swallowed, excreted

the moult can moult

 

 

 

 

electron nostalgia

 

Electra clasp the wretches

wretched         the wretches wash ashore           

 

pubic schema    old days of the goddess

    stressed belly            the “curved inflorescence”

irascible pharaoh        egg-shaped coffin

 

bury me in this alleged

Home

receiving familiar        Legend

Hers is the        felled heart            a sword-shaped segment

 

when i curve toward you

the air stretches me pinnate

radio neuron electra            radial split inquisitive 

I split            I fire on all radials

 

electrons of nostalgia        acquisitive longing

how the “stigma persists at the tip”    even though its buried

how trauma persists            the skins a sun coming through it

 

kletic

 

wild mouths wild mouths

when the agor settles

when gold dust lament

covers it all

i am a beetle captured

in glass

my green thorax aglow

among the amber

my pincers akimbo

like come at me bro

i still believe in a female god

 

Melissa Eleftherion is a writer, librarian, and a visual artist. She is the author of field guide to autobiography (The Operating System, 2018), & nine chapbooks, including the forthcoming trauma suture (above/ground press, 2020). Born & raised in Brooklyn, Melissa now lives in Mendocino County where she manages the Ukiah Library, teaches creative writing, & curates the LOBA Reading Series. Recent work is available at www.apoetlibrarian.wordpress.com.

“Six Degrees at the Movies” by Dennis Etzel Jr.

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Art by Moriah M. Mylod

remember Hollow Man?      Kevin Bacon  

stuck in our seat forced     a rapist’s point 

of view     women can’t see him 

we go unseen     reliving through

leading to his neighbor     her apartment 

stuck in our seat     as credits roll

I should have left     before credits

still without closure     Rhona Mitra 

credited     only as Neighbor     

 

 

Dennis Etzel Jr. lives with Carrie and the boys in Topeka, Kansas where he teaches English at Washburn University. His work has appeared in Denver Quarterly, Indiana Review, BlazeVOX, Fact-Simile, 1913: a journal of poetic forms, 3:AM, Tarpaulin Sky, DIAGRAM, and others. Etzel is the recipient of a 2017 Troy Scroggins Award and the 2017 Topeka ARTSConnect Arty Award in Literary Arts. He co-edited Ichabods Speak Out: Poems in the Age of Me, Too with Dr. Jericho Hockett which features poems against sexual assault from the Washburn University and Topeka Community. He is a TALK Scholar for the Kansas Humanities Council and leads poetry workshops in various Kansas spaces.

“Third Shift at the Night Factory” by Stephen Frech

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Art by Moriah M. Mylod

Third shift at the night factory

assembles the simple, elegant machine of night.

Workers, like figures in a shadow play,

hammer the fitted parts home,

extend the handle of a wrench with a pipe,

and brace a foot against the stubborn bolt.

 

Engineers pour over the schematics of the moon 

trembling on the surface of oil in open buckets.

In the last of the dark hours,

welders extinguish their torches

while the foreman inspects the welds

with a candle held behind the seams.

 

Pinholes in the bead or casting

fill the factory with starlight,

a constellation of flaws, a myth and map of stars

we made to find our way out.

 

Queued at the gate and parting

at the whistle into morning,

shift workers call to each other:

‘night, see ya, so long, take care 

 

Stephen Frech has earned degrees from Northwestern University, Washington University in St. Louis, and the University of Cincinnati. He has published three volumes of poetry: Toward Evening and the Day Far Spent (Kent State UP), If Not For These Wrinkles of Darkness (White Pine Press), and The Dark Villages of Childhood (Midwest Writing Center) His fourth volume titled A Palace of Strangers is No City, a sustained narrative of prose poetry/flash fiction, has been published by Cervena Barva Press. He published a translation of poetry from the Dutch: Menno Wigman’s Zwart als kaviaar/Black as Caviar. He is founder and editor of Oneiros Press, publisher of limited edition, letterpress poetry broadsides. Oneiros broadsides have been purchased by special collections libraries around the world, among them the Newberry Library (Chicago), the Beinecke Library at Yale, and the University of Amsterdam Print Collection. Stephen Frech is Professor of English at Millikin University

2 poems by Paul Brookes

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Art by Moriah M. Mylod

 

I Hollow

 

out the machineries of cold manufactured delight.

Push broom down aisles of persuasion,

 

Tidy stray cardboard packaging, lost lollipops,

Tab ends, water bottle tops into clear bags.

 

Push sud and scrub machine down

Avenues of enticement, lift shoe scud,

 

rice, sugar, dripped carbonated water,

my own boot print to be released, slopped out

 

into whatever weather drips, ices, the shop car park 

through the detached nozzle of cleanliness.

 

▪¤●○•°■■●○•°

 

Latest Fad Is

making shapes

with the soft robots

under your skin.

 

Caterpillars and pigs

manipulated inside

your transparent skin

and muscle into shadow

 

plays of nostalgic silhouette

cathedrals, medieval streets,

Capability Brown gardens,

rivers tumble from mountains.

 

Only the rich can afford

the best internal silhouettes.

Some prefer strip shows

and a pole dancers writhe

 

inside them they control

with a flashlight. Others

hybrid animal/machine 

fantasy battles. Internal

 

tattoos that some say

rot inside after so much

manipulation. Corrosion

bleeds into vital organs.

 

Paul Brookes is a shop asst. His chapbooks include The Fabulous Invention Of Barnsley, (Dearne Community Arts, 1993). The Headpoke and Firewedding (Alien Buddha Press, 2017), A World Where and She Needs That Edge (Nixes Mate Press, 2017, 2018) The Spermbot Blues (OpPRESS, 2017), Port Of Souls (Alien Buddha Press, 2018),Please Take Change (Cyberwit.net, 2018), As Folk Over Yonder ( Afterworld Books, 2019).Forthcoming Stubborn Sod, (Alien Buddha Press).

“this wonder of an era” by Ahimaz Rajessh

       

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Art by Moriah M. Mylod

       as the missiles launched by the famished, agency-severed headless palmyras make love as yatchan/yatchini in the expansive space above the sea, unusually intense acid rain pours down which enthralls the soft-spaceships orbiting the earth.

 

        ‘the upholders of absolute truth say—.’ in the process of putting down: ‘in this wounded era in which a few of those still remain, those who had lost along with their limbs and memories their history to those that call themselves civilized; in this era that makes one wonder how is it even possible to be this much cultured, in this cultured era in which the ancient invisible technology that creates histories out of fictions and makes them myths has meshed itself finely with high technology, truly they say: a society that has not written down and preserved its history proper will be wiped ou—’; in the process of putting down and reading this, does a missile called silence advance up toward my vocal cord and sever my part-asinine chain of thought.

 

       the multiplied yatchi/yatcha missiles fly past mountains and cities invisibly, lighting up electromagnetic spectrum, picking and savoring microwaves, but unsatiated and still famished, they migrate in many directions, departing and arriving toward the targets.

 

 

 

Ahimaz Rajessh (@ahimaaz) has been published recently with Marlskarx, Burning House Press, Big Echo: Critical SF, Paint Bucket, Speculative 66, formercactus, Dream Pop Press and MoonPark Review. He lives in the Union of India.

“centralia, the town that swallows flames” by Kailey Tedesco

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Art by Moriah M. Mylod

our feet have bottomed 

out in the earth-slit.

let it be known 

 

buck was once the name 

of a dog, but not a dog 

of mine. my toddler 

 

arms suffered hives 

from his lick, burned 

redhot from within

 

  1. i feared his cleaning 

himself, a nautilus 

my own body 

 

could not shape. in a kitchen 

like any other, the smoke 

left a beeswarm. before

 

fire, i figured allergies, my skin 

blistering honeyblood. a maggot

lived in buck 

 

for nine days before

anyone noticed. when plucked, 

it was golf-sized, full of 

 

dog. mother fed me 

a milkbone for a moment of 

peace, bleached the 

 

sink of its bloodsplatter until

our dishes were 

poison. the sun rises &

 

there is less  

& less of us. we hold

last vigils by the jesus-

 

shrine, ask for him to 

be with us & in us – a 

maggot. how afraid

 

they must be, jesus

and the dog, having never 

seen hell before. we are 

 

constantly feeding; the holes

are already 

in all of us. 

 

 

 

 

 

Kailey Tedesco is the author of She Used to be on a Milk Carton (April Gloaming Publishing). Her collection, Lizzie, Speak, won White Stag Publishing’s 2018 poetry contest, and her newest collection, FOREVERHAUS, is forthcoming from White Stag in 2020. She is a senior editor for Luna Luna Magazine. You can find her work featured or forthcoming in Gigantic Sequins, Electric Literature, Nat. Brut, Black Warrior Review, Fairy Tale Review, Bone Bouquet Journal, and more. For further information, please follow @kaileytedesco. 

“LA COLLECTIONNEUSE” by Nicholas Beren

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Art by Moriah M. Mylod

1.

California mouth sore

gas station brass

 

where a rich black mass

is still in the window

 

The phone 

I use 

crackles 

and never 

makes much 

sense

I feel like 

I’ve read

the internet

too many 

times

and now I know

how it ends

we have 

plans 

to meet 

at eleven

But 

come eleven 

I’m the 

only one 

waiting

underneath 

the crumby 

don’t walk sign

that really 

just says walk 

in either orange

or blue

I always wonder 

what her cruelty means

She tells me 

it means nothing

 

3.

Hauntings take time 

you cannot haunt 

somewhere 

all at once 

and if you ever tried 

you wouldn’t understand 

what it truly means to haunt 

like a horse in the jungle 

the cool smell of chlorine 

the nearness of your dress

 

The final portion of this poem previously appeared in Caustic Frolic.
Nicholas Beren is a New Jersey native. In addition to his poetry, he has written film criticism and arts features for sundry outlets, online and in print. You can find him on twitter @BerenNicholas. He still lives in New Jersey.

“Telling” by Ian Schoultz

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Art by Moriah M. Mylod


stories only 🡪 this message has no content / i will devour / like a written thing 🡪 loomed untitled. /// The / empathy empathy / the main character should die 🡪 submenu / enter // my question is when u say you are say u are sad, what are you sad about? are you sad about the world? the compounded sadness? is a thought sad? how is happy? whose is it and what is it like? mouseclick 🡪 palpable turn //// thought n. – a reliquary of loss; an open document; a semblance; a letting; a source; everyone who’s there. [] [] [] 🡪 the season nonetheless some evocative partially solid thing 🡪 extra limbic 🡪 carrier wave 🡪 mostly 🡪 really 🡪 and as the subject of / what do you see 🡪 praxis in reasonable portions 🡪 father on religion save / save save the whales 🡪 they sick / from heavy metals (character’s demonstration of preconceived prerecorded a priori desires /// “exist” or 🡪 my biological episode (to descriptor string [] [] blessed end blessed beginning) 🡪 second death / wearing the gradual retreat still heard and felt / Object. / have been the road [] [] [] [] [] [] see if you put this like this and this like this / you can make / a mouth a mouth a myth / and it’s the same the same same [the question is]

 

 

Ian recently finished his MFA in Poetry from Louisiana State University. His work has appeared in the tiny and Aberration Labyrinth and is forthcoming in Always Crashing. He lives and walks his black lab, Gabriel, in Baton Rouge, Louisiana.

 

3 Poems by L. Reeman

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Art by Moriah M. Mylod

J. EDGAR (Dir. Clint Eastwood, 2011)

 

I.

 

i don’t

 

i don’t

 

i don’t         like to

 

i don’t like to        dance,     mother,

 

i don’t like to–

 

EDGAR GO LOOK IN THE 

MIRROR TALK THE WAY THE DOCTOR

TAUGHT YOU TO BE MY LITTLE SPEEDY

 

((i can spit my         words out with    ((with 

((i can spit my words         out with 

 

mother,     mother 

 

i don’t like to dance

i don’t like to dance with     anyone 

((but mostly 

i don’t like to dance with     women

 

–ODD BEHAVIOR

–DO YOU KNOW WHY –ITS SHORT FOR

DAFFODIL HE SHOT HIMSELF–

SIX WEEKS AFTER

–I’D RATHER HAVE A DEAD SON THAN 

A DAFFODIL […] SON

 

II.

 

EDGAR:    you know i care so very much for you […]

CLYDE:     IS EVERYTHING OKAY–

EDGAR:     yes i’m fine–

CLYDE:    DON’T YOU MAKE A FOOL OF ME […]

CLYDE:    HAVE YOU BECOME PHYSICAL–

EDGAR    yes we have–

EDGAR:     do you want me to be half a person–

CLYDE:    IS THAT WHAT I AM TO YOU– INCOMPLETION–

CLYDE:     YOU’RE A SCARED HEARTLESS HORRIBLE LITTLE MAN–

EDGAR:    you’re acting like a fool–

 

[…]

 

EDGAR:    don’t you ever do that again–

 

[…]

 

EDGAR:    Clyde     ((where are you going

EDGAR:    Clyde     ((i’m sorry

EDGAR:    Clyde     ((please don’t leave me

EDGAR:    Clyde     ((i’m begging you

 

 

 

THE LIGHT, RIGHT BEFORE (IT GOES OUT)

 

we are eating our separate smoke in 

your living room: you prop your broken

 

window open with a weapon-part when 

the hot air coaxing us into a fine sweat 

 

[triggers] 

 

my body back into the last jail cell: for weeks

afterwards i wake up dragged out of my car 

 

& my hands cuff-numb again in both our 

beds: i’ve decided love is the awkward way 

 

we dance around the word itself: so in the 

interest of being transparent i am admitting 

 

i am an expert at pretending to be asleep: 

i have done it while another partner fucked 

 

someone else in my bed next to me & 

i have done it to stay home from grade 

 

school & i have done it in jail to placebo 

myself into stillness:  i promise i am not 

 

lying even when i say the same things as 

i’ve said into similarly uncertain mouths: 

 

love is me telling you how to devastate me 

& you choosing not to: love is you wanting 

 

me to believe all the awful things you assume 

would make someone tell you to leave: or, it 

 

is knowing we are pretending not to watch 

each other move / liquid-like / right before 

the light / goes out. 

 

 

THE NEW JERSEY DEVIL STOPS BEING A PACIFIST AFTER WATCHING COPS BEAT ITS FRIENDS INTO THE PAVEMENT 

 

The New Jersey Devil is being followed by an unmarked car (again) (today). The New Jersey Devil sits across from the jail-warden and looks at its own mugshot upside-down. The New Jersey Devil watches the camera watching it eat naked shit naked sleep naked sob naked glare back at it naked. The New Jersey Devil finds the only not-Bible book during the one un-solitary hour and it is Hamlet so thus reads each sentence twice then recites it back to itself like it is the Ghost and the voice-crack and the Accident and the scene-change all at once. The New Jersey Devil is told it is unsafe but the jail-warden is not telling the New Jersey Devil how it feels he is telling it how it is classified. The New Jersey Devil does not know how long it prayed to a sliver of sky before realizing it was just a brick wall’s painted taunt. The New Jersey Devil has handcuff scars for months after. Later, the New Jersey Devil learns a prayer exists in a lover’s language that begs the skulls of their enemies cracked open on rocks like brunch eggs. Later, the New Jersey Devil practices the script of its emergency contact number so often it recitals in its sleep. Now, the New Jersey Devil does not have it memorized (yet) (again). Now, the New Jersey Devil gets one phone call and it rings and rings and rings and rings and rings and rings and rings and rings and rings and rings and rings and rings and rings and rings and rings and rings and rings and rings and rings and rings and rings and rings and rings and rings and rings and rings and rings and rings and rings and rings and rings and rings and rings and rings and rings and rings and rings and rings and rings and rings and rings and rings and rings and rings and rings and rings and rings and rings and rings and rings and rings and

 

 

L. Reeman is an interdisciplinary archivist and poet haunting highway rest-stops. They are the author of INVENTION OF THE MOUTH (Dream Pop Press, 2019), and BAITED MEMORY (Ghost City Press, 2019), as well as other chapbooks, and they have work in the 2017 Bettering American Poetry anthology. They want to hear about your favorite bridge.

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