NATE LOGAN

man fishing1.jpeg
 

Sometimes a Pony Gets Depressed 

 

Dear Nathan— 
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. 
                                Best, Dave 
 
Dave— 
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 

 
Dear Nate, 
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
          walk. 
 
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 
          cinnamon. 
 
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.