"He's like a very flawed, lowly god, poor man." -James Tate, from The Ghost Soldiers

Drumming

I spent the afternoon in a battle of wits against a vagabond in the park. He had stopped me on my usual, pleasant-autumn-day walk. I can tell you when you’ll die, and where you’ll go after he said. He was sitting on a bench, and he had some sort of large can in a small, paper bag hanging loosely from his hand. He was wearing a sloppy sign on his chest that read THE END. I wasn’t sure whether to be offended, or interested. Listen here, you’re disrupting an essential part of my autumn days I said. I know that he said. These walks are the last thing that are keeping me sane, I swear I said. Just give me a moment of your time, and I’ll tell you everything he said. No, I won’t humor you, and your insanity I said, and began to walk away. He followed me, and began pestering me with puzzles and riddles, which he claimed would be very telling as to my impending death. I started running, and took paths that I had never before taken, in an effort to lose this maniac. The further into the park I went, the more knobby and gnarled the trees became. I looked behind me, and the vagabond was looking wild, feral, with sharp teeth, and tufts of fur growing in patches all over his skin. I was afraid for my life. I immediately regretted not just stopping, doing those puzzles and riddles. The vagabond tried to tell me this, how this was going to happen.

"I ran away upstairs into my room and played the drums and used lots of cymbals and my ears rang." -Tao Lin, from You Are A Little Bit Happier

Whip

I bought dozens of dogs to roam my farmland, and, one by one, they started to get struck by lightning. One was running on a hill during a storm, barking at the thunder when the lightning struck. Another was unwittingly standing under a large tree in the middle of the field. The third was in it’s own doghouse, when the lightning came through the small gap of a door. I decided to make the rest of the dogs housedogs, for fear of losing them all to the vicious lightning. This didn’t work. The lighting broke windows, picked the locks to the doors, came through the chimney. It was determined, for some reason. There was something about these dogs that the lightning just didn’t like. I began to feel afraid of the dogs, because a natural force simply couldn’t be wrong. I locked myself in my closet, and as soon as I did, my dogs began barking at the door, running into it, scratching it. They were rabid, hungry for flesh, and I prayed for another storm to roll in.

"When she opens her mouth, crows and doves are making a nest in her throat." -Zach Schomburg, from The Man Suit

Smell

A man begins to follow me around with a tape recorder, recording every single utterance I make, and playing it back to me instantly. Hey Beatrice I say. Hey Beatrice my recorded voice says. My voice sounds so nasally, and the inflection seems to me to be quite effeminate. I grow embarrassed. What is this Beatrice says, nodding towards the man with the tape recorder. I’m not sure; he just started following me. I’m not sure; he just started following me my recorded voice says. Beatrice looks at me, then to the man, then back to me. This is weird she says, and begins to walk off. I know, but wait I say, but before I can finish, I hear my voice say I know, but wait. I follow Beatrice down the road, begging her to speak with me. Please, Beatrice, I love you. I stop walking, unsure if I had said this, or my recorded voice. Hm my recorded voice says.

"I should start swirling around and become a dustdevil. That would really be something." -James Tate, from The Ghost Soldiers

Cloud

I go to the doctor because I’m afraid about my abdominal pains. The doctor presses her palms into my abdomen in different areas, saying things like hmm, and ah, and interesting, and aha. The doctor then sends me to a dark room, where they x-ray my midsection, first standing, then laying, from every angle possible. I’m led back to the original room of stomach-pressing, and am told to sit, and not panic, whatever I do. Each squeak and growl my stomach makes sends a chill through my veins and nerves. The doctor enters the room, and I jump in my seat. You won’t want to do that anymore she says. Your stomach seems to now be made entirely of eraser, and the more you move, the more things outside of your stomach disappear. I pause for a few counts. What exactly do you mean by that I say. I mean that eventually you’ll be only a stomach, a stomach made of eraser, and we won’t know where the rest of you has gone. I get up from my seat and feel a sharp pain near my navel. Will you keep me on your mantle, and tell my story to your grandchildren one day I say. I’d be honored she says. She bends down. You’re a very brave stomach she says.

"This is a film about the inside of trees." -Eric Baus, from Tuned Droves

Wheel

I encounter a tiger in the forest, and I immediately pounce, before it can notice. Landing on its course hair, I feel a few ribs snap like twigs under my feet. In blind panic, I begin scratching and biting the tiger for dear life. The tiger never moves. It just breathes heavily, and lets out an occasional longer breath, like a sigh. I kick, and grab its tail, and stomp, and scratch, and bite until I’m tearing pieces of flesh off of its heaving body. A bloody mess, I take a few steps back and look at what I’ve done. The tiger and I make eye contact for a moment, and all of a sudden I notice a deafening silence. The tiger isn’t breathing anymore. I’m not breathing anymore. We aren’t even in the forest anymore. We were in a large, empty, vacuous space, the two of us in complete darkness. I feel small and alone, and I curl up next to its broken body, like a mother I never knew.

"It's a kind of LED tree hybrid joke and you could just kiss it for trying for failing." -Heather Christle, from The Seaside!

Impossible

My friends all went to get the hit new surgery today. I sit down in my living room, and picked up the novel that I hadn’t been able to sit to in months. I can’t focus on it, though. It’s been so long, and I’m nervous to see them, these dear friends of mine, to hear how things went. I’m not even sure what type of surgery they’re actually getting, other than it’s all the rage, apparently. My front door swings open, and a figure, brightly lit from behind, walks in. Another follows, and then another. The light seems to be following each of them, somehow, so that I can’t quite make them out, other than their shape. Hey, Brent one of the figures says, sounding remarkably like Parker, one of my friends. I suddenly feel a strange sort of fear. Parker I say. What do you think he says. Yeah, what do you think another of the figures says, this one sounding like Betty. The fear grows in me, as the figures draw nearer, spreading themselves out, as if to surround me. What is this I say. How do you like what we’ve done the third figure says. This one sounds like Jack. They are all around me now, the light hurting my eyes, like looking directly into an eclipse. What have you done I say, shrinking into my chair. Silhoueplasty they all say in unison. We are only silhouettes, now, and nothing more. I look from one to the other to the other, slowly blinding myself. It hurts they all say.

"All these years and no real spring and no real death." -Zach Schomburg, from From the Fjords

Spare

I wake up in the middle of the night to a loud thump, seemingly coming from the room down the hall, and, for some reason, I just know it’s the monster. I hear the door open and close, and my throat swells and closes completely in fear. Unable to breath, I listen as the heavy steps walk down the hall, closer and closer, towards my room. My heart hits the inside of my ribs over and over. My diaphragm spasms, making my breathing sporadic. My door knob jiggles slightly, as if the monster doesn’t know how to work one of those things. After a few shaky moments, the door knob turns, and the door slowly opens. Ice fills my body, starting from my head down to my feet, and I’m paralyzed, as I watch the tall, overly slender figure crouch to get through the doorway. It has one eye, and is covered in hair thick as worms. Are you frightened the monster asks me, quietly. I move my mouth, but only produce some groaning sounds. Well, I am, I’m not embarrassed to say it the monster says. He sits next to me in my bed. The monster is trembling. Something is coming for us the monster says. Something big. The monster’s voice is wavering. It puts its oblong head on my shoulder. I put my arm around it. We’ll wait the night out together.

"You have to love people they are so much like ourselves." -Heather Christle, from The Seaside!

Door

A man kicked my door in, ran over to me, in my robe, eating my breakfast, and grabbed me by the shoulders. Hurry hurry hurry he cried. I spilt some of the milk from my cereal bowl onto my robe. Ah, my robe I said. You’re what the man said. Never mind that, you need to hurry, we need you now he said. I don’t understand I said. Are you Paul Weatherby the man said. Well, yes, I am I said. Come with me the man said, grabbing me by the arm and leading me out of my doorway and into the back of his van. In the van, there were a few other bleary eyed, robed people, all seemingly as confused as I was. There were donuts for us, and each of us got our very own large latte. Get comfortable the man said. Hey, what is this, anyway a man sitting next to me called out. You’re all contestants on the new hit game show the man said, laughing. I was familiar with it. It was always with robed, tired looking people, and the stock-looking host always asked them intensely personal questions about their mothers and fathers that they apparently spent lots of time researching. At the end of the show, the contestants were all partially violently furious, deeply embarrassed, and extremely depressed, the combination leaving them unable to move. Some were even carted off the stage. We looked at each other slowly, all of us in the back of the van, left to right, back and forth, all around, and none of us knew what to say, strangers to even ourselves.

"Every dream is already true the moment it is dreamed." -Suzanne Buffam, from The Irrationalist

Track

I put on my astronaut mask and go out to do yard work. My neighbor waves at me. I go back inside and take off the astronaut mask, and put on the police officer mask. My wife kisses my cheek as she walks out the door. I quickly snatch the police officer mask off and put on the actor mask and my dog wags its tail while it lies by the fireplace. I take off the actor mask and put on my cowboy mask and shave my face. I knick my face, but never bleed. I never change my clothes.

"Disappointing people, letting everyone down in the forests of the soul." -John Berryman, from The Dream Songs

Frost

All trees are fake trees you say. They are really people disguised as trees you say. We are walking along a forest. You may hear them speak you say. I am silent. It’s all silent. The only noise is your voice. They’re all people who didn’t want to be bothered anymore you say. But listen, listen to them speak you say. We stop walking. We are completely silent. The world is silent. You smile and close your eyes. They’re singing you say. I walk away and leave you there, your head cocked back slightly, eyes shut tight, holding your breath, but still smiling that forced smile. I wouldn’t bother you anymore. I knew you always wanted to be a tree, although you hadn’t the faintest idea how.

"How does it feel to be so alone, to be so beautiful, and have nothing?" -James Tate, from Return to the City of White Donkeys

Excuses

My father and I decide to go on an adventure to the forest. He holds my hand as we walk through the beginning, young, sparse trees. Do they know we’re here I say. My father doesn’t hear my tiny voice. The windy day makes all the leaves rustle, and, in between each rustle, I hear tiny whispers, all sounding like my voice. I walk closer to my father, clutching at his hand tighter. He continues in a steady pace. The trees are growing older, getting larger, more dense. Are they here to hurt me I say. My father has grown taller as I look up. Or, I have grown smaller. He towers over me now, and looks down unflinchingly, unnoticing, as if I wasn’t there. I wrap my arms and legs around his thick lower leg, and cling as it moves forward and back. The sun barely comes through the thick canopy above us, and, in the increasingly rare moments of light, my father’s face is becoming more textured. The whispers are becoming more audible. Will we ever leave here safely I say, regretting the trip altogether. My father was gone. I’m in a vast-feeling darkness, surrounded by trees, all telling me directions to something in a language I don’t understand.

"I am so afraid of myself that my afraidness scares you more than it." -Tao Lin, from You Are a Little Bit Happier than I Am

Maximum

I woke up in the morning in a funk, and I just couldn’t put my finger on it. I poured coffee into my cereal bowl and put my legs through the arms of my robe. All this, and on my only day off. Just…I said to myself, and trailed off, forgetting how any phrase went. I stared at my spectacles and couldn’t place any sort of use to them. My teeth felt as though they were shaking. My stomach felt like a clenched fist. My nose was clogged with something, my ears too, it felt like. My vision looked like through a screen. Andy. Andy people kept telling me, as I walked down the street, feeling the cold breeze cut right through me, and so not being sure if I actually was naked or not. My name was Carson, at least today. It was the only thing my mind could focus on. The pains in my body were throbbing with steadily increasing intensity and pressure. And, in an instant, it all passed. I looked down, and was relieved that I wasn’t nude, just dressed haphazardly. In front of me, a person I vaguely recognized stood. He was curling over, as if in some great pain. You’re Carson now Andy said, and hobbled off. It was a new day, a certain type of rebirth, and the air smelt like something I couldn’t quite place.

"Some claim to see raindrops falling into our unblinking eyes." -Scott Alexander Jones, from OneDayThereWillBeNothingToShowThatWeWereEverHere

Rights

Martin decides to go to the town square, for a casual walk and conversation with a local, or something like that. He walks up his street, takes a left, walks down that street, takes a right, and stands in front of a tall office building. Excuse me, but isn’t this where the town square once was he says to a passer-by. It moved just now, here are the new directions to the town square the passer-by says, firmly scrawling directions on Martin’s hand with a permanent marker. Martin follows the directions to a “t,” walking further up the street, turning right, walking straight on that street for a few blocks, then turning right again. The sun seems to have disappeared from the sky, leaving a blank canvas of blue overhead. There are no clouds. Martin stands in front of another office building, this one a few stories smaller. Where is this town square he says out loud. A passer-by overhears him say this. Oh, it’s moved again. The new town square is a few miles from here. Here, let me show you the passer-by says, taking a knife and carving out directions into Martin’s chest, upright so that he can look down and see them properly, right side up. Martin feels faint, and notices that the sky has grown a paler shade of blue, almost a blue gray. He stumbles a bit as he follows these new directions, growing hungry and thirsty. The buildings are getting smaller and smaller, or that’s how they seem. Maybe these are the outskirts of the town that he’s heard of. He stands in front of a small convenience store, and considers saying something about the town square, but notices all the passers-by watching him, holding guns and swords and axes, seemingly waiting for him to utter some word. The sky had turned into a dark shade of gray, and was getting grayer. The light it made took the color from everyone, making them look pale and lifeless. As the world slowly fades away, and the hopeless, murderous masses arm themselves, Martin sits down on the curb, and thinks about how lifeless things outside the town square are.

"A little boy is slowly shot from a cannon." -Zach Schomburg, from The Man Suit

Answer

Every movement I make brings excruciating pain. Even the slightest toe twitch throws me into a violent, screaming fit. I need this package delivered, as quickly as possible you say. I jump up from my seat, howling in pain, clutching my back and gut at the same time. I’ll do it I stammer, staggering towards you, hand held out. You take a step back. Anyone else you say. I bend over and dry heave, the pain so unbearable, but I manage to step over, until I’m directly in front of you. No, I’ll do it I say. Your eyes begin welling up with tears. You’re not the right man for this job you say. Nonsense I say with a groan, swallowing in a cry as I stand up straight, a burning sensation shooting through my spine. I have to prove something to you, although I’m not quite sure exactly what, yet. I hold my head high, on my neck that feels broken. You’ll die, though you say. You’ll surely die. By now you were weeping openly, stammering yourself. You always were delicate, emotionally, weren’t you? I grab the package, collapse and begin convulsing, a broken heap on the floor. You don’t have to do this you scream, desperately. Stop it. I smile, the muscles in my face feeling as if they are tearing. Where do you need this delivered I say from the floor, feeling stronger, and braver, than I’ve ever before felt in my life.

"Boris had no water left. He rolled in the sand and became dirty." -Matvei Yankelevich

You may now find a poem here.

You should find other poems there, too.

"No one ever wanted to buy me. We were always the only two people in the room." -Zach Schomburg, from From the Fjords

7

One day, all the little beasts living within me decide to leave. They do this unannounced, in the middle of the night, when I am unaware. I wake up feeling empty, like I’ve misplaced something vital to my being. I wake up feeling inexplicably ashamed of myself. I start to look around my house, unsure of what I am even looking for. I do this every day, looking for little beasts in every corner, under every rug. I’m not even sure what the little beasts would look like. I assume like me. Tiny little versions of me, all unsure of themselves, looking for something they’ve lost. As vital to me as I wished I was to them.

"I know you don't want an umbrella, but here's an umbrella. And here's another umbrella. And another. Another. Another." -Emily Pettit, from How

6

There is this thing that the little beasts do, over and over and over again. One little beast screams into another little beast’s face, and then the other little beast emits light from its mouth. I try to understand this, and the closest I get is that this is some sort of magical greeting. I’d like to try something I tell you. I scream into your face. You sit motionless, unsure of what to do. I scream again, this time with more intensity. You begin to cry. No no no, this isn’t the way it’s supposed to happen I say. It’s never the way it’s supposed to happen.

"And then for the first time in his life Boris said aloud: There is a limit to everything everywhere." -Matvei Yankelevich, from Boris By The Sea

5

I only move when the little beasts tell me to move. I only speak when the little beasts tell me to speak. I eat when they tell me to. I sleep when I’m told. I grow old this way, doing as the little beasts say, trusting that they know best for me. And then, it happens. The voices stop. I’m lost in the dark world, unable to know what is the right thing to do with myself. This is a birth of some kind.

"When a boy's mouth collapses into itself, tiny flames release from his limbs." -Eric Baus, from Tuned Droves

4

I go to my doctor, and tell him I have little beasts inside of me, replacing all of my internal organs. He sends me to a psychiatrist, who then sends me to a mental institution after it’s clear that I’ll never give up this crazy idea, and thus am a lunatic. In the institution, I speak with everyone, and tell them about the little beasts. I can’t tell the beasts and myself apart, anymore I say. We can’t either they say.

"Something deep down was broken." -James Tate, from the Ghost Soldiers

3

The little beasts have no personalities of their own. They just mimic the person whose organs they’ve replaced. My little beasts sit up at night and watch old sitcoms, which they must act out, because there are no televisions in my body. Television, thus, has a new signification in my body. It’s the acting of played out situations by little beasts. They roll their eyes like I do. Also, my little beasts are always clutching at their guts, worried about what’s going on inside.

"And then, just like I knew it would, it came late one night, booming with slowness, from the fjords." -Zach Schomburg, from From the Fjords

2

The little beasts have very short life spans. It seems like some are always dying and some are always being born. This gives me confidence. It’s nice to know that the little beasts will continue on, once my body completely collapses on me. This is why I smile when I cough up blood, which is just thousands of microscopic little beasts, newly born into my strange world of a body.

"But now babies see me and report their sightings. Their eyes are taking mental notes." -Jeannie Hoag, from New Age of Ferociousness

1

All of my inside-parts are replaced with little beasts. They tickle my insides when I feel sad. So, in that respect, they are not completely un-functional. But my heart doesn’t pump blood anymore. My stomach doesn’t digest food. My lungs don’t take in any oxygen, or expel any carbon dioxide. I’m slowly dying, and my little beasts constantly apologize to me. I’m sorry that you’re dying, but we needed a good home they say.

"And love is just our own kind voice that we whisper into our own blood." -Zach Schomburg, from From the Fjords

Report

I go to the movie theatre to watch the latest comedy movie. It’s very popular and I haven’t heard a single bad review. I’m a bit troubled, and curious, though, at how many people have told me that the protagonist of the movie is just like me, and how the plot of the movie is just like my life. The first scene is an actress who looks startlingly like my mother giving birth to a writhing, ugly baby. The audience laughs at the doctor, slapping the baby’s face instead of its rear, seemingly unable to differentiate the two. My mother couldn’t help but laugh, too, my first real humiliation. Hey, it’s not really all that funny I say to the small man sitting next to me, laughing riotously. He doesn’t seem to notice. In the next scene, the baby has grown up into a high school aged boy, who, coincidentally, looks like me when I was in high school. He has failed his first big test. The mother can’t hide her disappointment. The audience laughs at the clever jibes the teacher throws at the student. My classmates all laughed along, I remember. I can’t believe this movie got so many good reviews. It isn’t even funny. It’s quite sad I say to the woman sitting behind me, tears streaming from her eyes and gasping for breath. The next scene is of me, or, rather, an actor who looks like me presently, walking to a movie theatre, and sitting down. The movie he is going to see is a comedy that seems to be a portrayal of his life. The man is sad, middle aged, and doesn’t know how to laugh at himself. He gets upset at the laughing audience. He gets up and rushes in front of the screen, crying out you are all cruel beasts and repeating it over and over. The audience surrounds him, laughing with hysterical intensity, some poking him. The movie ends there, and the credits roll. What a crock I say. I get up out of my seat, and begin walking to the exit. Nobody else moves. When I get to the door, I turn, and face the now quiet, expecting audience, all staring at me. Can’t you see that it obviously isn’t me in the movie I say, and the entire audience bursts into violent, grotesque laughter, all foaming at their mouths and scratching each other blindly. I begin to laugh with them. I know myself better, now.

"'Everything I have ever loved is slipping away,' I say. And then the bells go off." -Zach Schomburg, from From the Fjords

Fast

I wake up in the hospital, and this is where the confusion begins. A nurse enters my room. Why hasn’t this cadaver been taken to the morgue yet she says. She walks out of my room in a huff, as if I didn’t know she was only joking with me. A doctor comes into my room. This body has been in here for weeks he says. It should have been taken away quite a while ago. I make eye contact with the doctor. Any word as to my test results I say. The doctor breaks eye contact. Yes, well, it isn’t very good he says. What isn’t I say. According to the tests, you are dead, and have been for some time he says. The doctor must be in on the joke, as well, along with the nurse from before. Very funny, sir I say. I just need to know about the test results. Something about high blood pressure. The doctor pulls out a clipboard, seemingly from thin air. It says here that you have no blood pressure whatsoever, therefore you must not be alive he says. I’m very sorry to inform you, but you’re dead. I think for a moment. I have been feeling a bit differently. Somewhat lighter. Not hungry ever. More interested in borderlands and other liminal spaces. That’s where I must be, now. In some sort of strange in-between, in a sterile hospital with anonymous doctors and nurses. Not gone entirely, but not there either, and not entirely getting the joke, whether it’s on me, or us all.