Moonblanched Waste

Once in blackgrass I hollered at 

what I believed to be the moon falling

but it was a flashlight nearing my face.

Meg Allen is shooting butch females

in the Bay Area & those women have faces 

dusted with it’s about fucking time. Currently

the Jiffy Lube in Flourtown is serving AA meeting grade coffee. 

The waiting area provides a view of Planet Fitness 

where all the heads rhyme on treadmills

& the flock of whitebellied birds above the gym 

are like nicks in blue cement. Someone l love 

has never had their face blownoff. I’ll just be 

standing there & suddenly smell or taste 

elementary school pizza. Although I hate little boys 

I cannot deny the fact I was one. All boys 

grin like demons at their mothers. When I was born 

a poisonous gas was released from a glasstube 

& it’s why today I love something as crucial 

as professional sports. If I am caught claiming 

I am going to explore the possibility

between memory & the present

beat me mercilessly with a curtainrod 

& throw us together in a dumpster in Orlando.

John Deere


John Deere kills his tractor’s motor.

John Deere is hot.

John Deere is cleanshaven.

John Deere climbs off his tractor.

John Deere books a flight.

John Deere once chewed the head right off a hawk.

John Deere could take the flight attendant.

John Deere is standing on Lorimer in Brooklyn & waiting.

John Deere is hot.

John Deere sees his hat on the head of Millennial Beard.

There is no more Brooklyn.

John Deere has taken his hat & put it on his head.

John Deere returns home.

John Deere rides his tractor with Brooklyn atop his head.

Millennial Beard’s manual incompetence used to be precious.

Millennial Beard offers chattering interpretations of himself to vindicate his worth.

Millennial Beard once soaked pickles in brine but got bored.

Millennial Beard picks up a new hat at a boutique called Guillotine.

John Deere hangs Brooklyn on a peg in the mudroom.

John Deere is quiet & easy.

John Deere fixes a lightswitch because it’s broke.

John Deere flips the lightswitch.

John Deere is autonomous as the room lights up.

John Deere has an impoverished fantasy life. 

Until My Stomach is a Microchip I'm Not Impressed


That academics now publish papers

on the cognitive value of playing outdoors

is sort of sad & fucked up.

If toilets flushed forwards


there’d be more poets. I can listen to

Berryman read his Dreams all day long.

If you've experienced trauma chances are

the things that wake most people up from dreams


dont wake you up.

I once had to watch an infant’s throat sliced open over & over again

while gold leaves flew out of its neck.

I yearn for anonymity & fame at the same time.


A couple in bed reading their books: ahhh.

A couple in bed watching two screens:

human nature has fundamentally changed!

An Albert Goldbarth poem is a child's mouth


vandalized by food.

So much poetry today is a bored guillotine.

Is microchip a pizza topping?

I walked away from the selfcheckout machine


as she was in midsentence. Punch me

if I begin a sentence There's a study that shows...

When I step into a CVS or Walgreens

I expect to die there. That martial arts studio


In the stripmall

next to Radio Shack

& Best Nails

Has closed. 

John Ebersole is the poetry editor for The Philadelphia Review of Books and his work has either appeared and disappeared or is soon to appear in Octopus, HTML GIANT, Bateau, Southern Humanities Review, storySouth, The Battersea Review, Coldfront, and died elsewhere. He also hosts, along with Jen Fitzgerald, New Books in Poetry.