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 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
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.