CONTROL TOWER
︎︎︎ Adam Stutz
︎ May 27, 2023
From the bedroom window I open these flags & rise for no one
The clatter is wall-to-wall coverage of my special-effects disaster
breath measures expiration until my ideology evaporates
All my down-wind utterances turn into an up-town smoke of confusion
(or maybe justification) mixed takes fester into a spill
So I write-up obscurity into line items:
1) severed wing sings on sidewalk for its sibling
2) starving coyote stalks picnics for hashtags
3) sirens splits silence into a bomb of selfies
4) teeth grind down to a chapel made of sand
I’m back to an eye of needles hanging by a thread in white noise
All I aspire to is a security blanket for air traffic control
The clatter is wall-to-wall coverage of my special-effects disaster
breath measures expiration until my ideology evaporates
All my down-wind utterances turn into an up-town smoke of confusion
(or maybe justification) mixed takes fester into a spill
So I write-up obscurity into line items:
1) severed wing sings on sidewalk for its sibling
2) starving coyote stalks picnics for hashtags
3) sirens splits silence into a bomb of selfies
4) teeth grind down to a chapel made of sand
I’m back to an eye of needles hanging by a thread in white noise
All I aspire to is a security blanket for air traffic control
Adam Stutz is the Editor-in-Chief and Publisher of Broken Lens Journal and the author of Transcript (Cooper Dillon Books, 2017) and The Scales (White Stag Publishing, 2018). His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Prelude, Be About It, Deluge, Dum Dum Zine, The Pinch, Where is the River, Dream Pop, Cover, Ghost Proposal, INKSOUNDS, Only Good Poems, Heavy Feather Review, and can be found at stutzwrites.com. He currently resides in Los Angeles, California.
Also by Adam: SINKING, SEEDLINGS
little death
︎︎︎ Danielle Chelosky
︎ May 23, 2023
in my dreams you call me your
pretty little hole like
the kind you find in
the hardwood floor
of your childhood home.
my body suddenly disintegrates,
becoming a void,
a portal you can step into.
you reach your hand
in and pull out
a never-ending noose
made of colorful ribbons
and put your neck through it.
pretty little hole like
the kind you find in
the hardwood floor
of your childhood home.
my body suddenly disintegrates,
becoming a void,
a portal you can step into.
you reach your hand
in and pull out
a never-ending noose
made of colorful ribbons
and put your neck through it.
Danielle Chelosky is an editor at Hobart Pulp and an intern at Amphetamine Sulphate.
cope
︎︎︎ Evan Laffer
︎ May 20, 2023
at my lowest
I admitted it was an honor
just to be nominated
and to the high noon sun
at its most moonlike
screaming down
"I heard you liked romance"
I would have said yes
even wanting is done poorly
on the first try
when the power failed
and the restaurant filled with smoke
I thought this could ruin dinner
and you thought this is my life
preferring to see it all as
something only half-owned
a good guess that’d been corrected
what an idiot thinks bitterly
about a pound of feathers
eventually
there was nothing I could do
to convince you
you were not loitering
we do our best
sharing a
park bench or bed
with equal tact
both could become more
but somehow
never after dark
morning sex
good I thought
part of your workday
across the table,
sitting on a
stranger’s ass
I looked
like someone
paying a bill
I admitted it was an honor
just to be nominated
and to the high noon sun
at its most moonlike
screaming down
"I heard you liked romance"
I would have said yes
even wanting is done poorly
on the first try
when the power failed
and the restaurant filled with smoke
I thought this could ruin dinner
and you thought this is my life
preferring to see it all as
something only half-owned
a good guess that’d been corrected
what an idiot thinks bitterly
about a pound of feathers
eventually
there was nothing I could do
to convince you
you were not loitering
we do our best
sharing a
park bench or bed
with equal tact
both could become more
but somehow
never after dark
morning sex
good I thought
part of your workday
across the table,
sitting on a
stranger’s ass
I looked
like someone
paying a bill
Evan Laffer is a podcaster and poet not necessarily in that order. He has lived in New York and Los Angeles and likes both. @elaffer
Also by Evan: who loves the sun, rabbit rabbit
Also by Evan: who loves the sun, rabbit rabbit
blame, cherish
︎︎︎ Holly Brindley
︎ May 18, 2023
everybody gone
oh dear so special
oh dear so special
monkey with a telescope
︎︎︎ Ryan Aliapoulios
︎ May 12, 2023
the sun looks like a germ
from the right perspective
and you are always leaving me
banana peels all over
from the right perspective
and you are always leaving me
banana peels all over
Ryan Aliapoulios is an LA-based writer and editor. His poems have appeared online in Corporeal and are forthcoming in Bullshit Lit and Pamplemousse. ryanaliapoulios.com