Live from somewhere—
anywhere— oh shit— help us—
Bring finales! Brattling swords!
Window-less in this theater
malformed leeches +
rambling thoughts: sunflower wrecks
of usury travel filled w/ extortions
+ columnar falsehoods
+ colloquial distractions
denting the armor’s thick skin.
The fields are gnawing
+ we have arrived
at the superfluous
structure of failed
dialogue (lighter fluid
Check the gritting teeth (the last self-portrait
the dash crash rabble running up
tabs + talk-talk—
the world’s a word
too expansive for the small cuts
on my finger
but it’s still
a world evolving.
To pull the line from the syllables
I see bobbing
on the horizon
my fish mouth
finds dangling in the brackish
of my hopes where I forward
matters displaced by a loose survival
The levity of simple breezes
(new shelter “an eyelash lining
a cheek like a prayer”—
is the morbidity
that comes from breathing for one more minute.
The next campaign is a wave—
a wanton window
into the old century’s viciousness.
As we arrive
the same omnipresent questions
once worn in brocades
on the chest remain (the republic.
We still continue
to fall slowly into embellishment +
the stains of years
punctuating the decorated gangway
in faulty promise.
Our stooped shoulders
form a means to an end—
a canvas of scars penned
w/ the kinds of anxieties
only night words can bring.
+ sickness colored-in at the edges—
the hollow skins + parentage
singing in glorious techno-babble.
It’s all pulled from
the demagogue garbage collection.
It’s pushing along
malignancies in a pandemic of papercuts.
We love the romance
we fabricate under false justice
embedded in constituency—
we lay disarray like art into
+ re-design our vessels
into pigeon calls— an electric bleakness.
We are a heated condition
of tiny hand
blowhards brandishing hate as commodity—
dressed up as affection for the consumer—
collected in votes.
We now build
in seconds +
new fevers + seraphim
w/their plucked-out wings
(cracked + violent.
We melt into strangers.
We step up
the soft tissue wounds
conceived in sewn-up
Onward we are the march
of clipped wings—
steered by a lost navigator
+ we become inquiries + a blueprint
for the new mourning
where the faces
we hang in the closet
fail to ever settle our overrun life.
We continue to nurture
up the clock face—
waiting out the period
for fifty-nine minutes
I hold the dear brilliance of my shining anxiety
in the waiting room: familiar line in tow:
I am teetering (don’t slip
office: a familiar worship room: I plant
my irritation in an upright chair I can trace
w/ my eyes closed:
Roughly: an affirmation on a coffee mug
is towing a familiar freeway +
the desire for the first night: a kitchen song
latched in a moribund envelope of necessity:
into spin cycle high-end programming
for all of my imagined dramas:
the violence of skins
gate closing/a protection:
unspent measure of molar grinding
The decay of my teeth: the sculpting
of dereliction + sporting cardigans:
I imagine a small balloon
of sex nests next to me slumbering down:
(two lines I skipped I yield to false images
a million miles: a love a silence of desire
that needs to shriek yes: progress
Adam Stutz is the the co-curator of the Non-Standard Lit Reading Series, with Mark Wallace and Jeanine Webb. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Equalizer: Second Series, White Stag, The Cultural Society, A Sharp Piece of Awesome, Prelude, Be About It, Deluge, Dum Dum Zine, The Pinch, Where is the River, Dream Pop, and Last Exit. He is the author of the chapbook Transcript (Cooper Dillon Books, 2017) and The Scales (White Stag Publishing, 2018). He currently resides in San Diego, CA.