Sometimes a Pony Gets Depressed
Caribbean wasn’t the same
without you. Every day lounging
in candy cane beach chairs.
Through complimentary telescopes
we watched Monster Island
which seemed so far away and north.
A bartender told us a joke: What kind
of animal needs to smoke a cigarette?
We didn’t know and he never delivered
the punch line, but he made a mean zombie,
for which we tipped well.
You wouldn’t believe the shit
people say at the optometrist’s.
Every magazine is Southern Living,
which seems antithetical to eye care.
Not sure what “Monster Island” means—
are you trying to be funny with that line?
I think this year is going to skip spring
altogether. I find myself spending
more and more time in the backyard,
just feeling grass blades in my feet.
I think the bartender was attempting
to be philosophical with you, that’s all.
It’s easy to wax poetic at a resort—
happens to me all the time.
Talk soon, Nate
Punks in the Beerlight
I loathe avocado, so how
can anyone expect me
to give guacamole the college
try. I’ve never understood
that phrase. I also never got
alt-country—is that genre
something like muttering
I love you to the max, instead
of I’d flip my car over
a million times for you?
Dave told me you didn’t go
to the Caribbean. He said
he was floored by the number
of salsa jars. What a thing
to take the top clean off of
his balding skull. Not the dialect
of crabs. Not the translucent
sea. Not the booty of rum.
I’m sure you would’ve seen
a bird with an eye-patch.
That’s number one on my
bucket list. Did I ever tell you
that my grandfather liked
to call Old Country Buffet
the Old Bucket of Blood?
I don’t think he was ever
in a punk band, but that’s
the most punk thing I’ve ever
heard anyone say.
All my love, Fran
The Plot Thickens
Clementine’s car is dead in North Dakota. An albino buffalo looks on, munching grass.
And there I am, riding my bike to Grandma’s house.
Shane takes an important phone call after eating a bag of chips.
I am a monkey in a lab cage that Shane has injected with a virus. I like eating nuts.
Two friends are sitting in a coffee shop. One looks up from his black hole latte to the other and reaches
for his mustache.
I don’t think you know how long it took me to grow this mustache and how attached I’ve become to it.
That’s what I should say.
Ben has adopted an interest in Canadian citizenship.
Nathan Logan lies on a beach in France. “No one plays hockey here,” he says to himself.
Franny attaches a leash to her cat. They are going for a walk.
Royce attaches a leash to his daughter. I ask him why he is doing this. He says they are going for a
A bottle of A1 is opened and inhaled before class starts.
In the spices aisle at Whole Foods, a panic attack creeps up on me. Was it the nutmeg I needed. Was it
A whole day passes and no one enters the hair salon.
I’m staring at my phone. No Google searches make me smile.
James gets angry when people say, “Hindsight is 20/20.” James gets more than angry—he wants to kill.
When he got shot with a dart from a blowgun, people said “hindsight is 20/20” and this made
him really fucking angry.
After hearing James’s story, I invent the term “fishshit nuts.”
The child jumps in the lake, a cannonball.
I squeeze my wife’s hand. Tiny waves struggle to meet our feet.
Smith & Jones Forever
The fist bump went horribly wrong.
Now it’s a .gif that lives in the hearts
and file folders of twenty-somethings
everywhere. Yeah, I saw it too. No,
it’ll never get old. The tour guide said
there was no evidence that cowboys
communicated this way when moseying.
You said it would’ve been cool if they had,
but the tour guide said no. The coolest thing
was sleeping outside without a tent.
Now that’s fucking stupid, you said,
and we were promptly escorted out.
There was nothing in the brochure
about how many songs were composed
on the dead plains, the number of lone stars
embroidered on buckles. Things are different
now, but it’s still more dangerous to travel among
best friends. New plan: we'll hitchhike our way
from Odessa to Houston. I’ll count blown-out tires
up to 47, then I’m going to wake you up.
Nate Logan‘s recent reviews and work can be found in Diagram, Forklift, Ohio, and Ninth Letter. He’s the editor of Spooky Girlfriend Press and a Ph.D. candidate in Creative Writing at the University of North Texas.