A POEM by BEN SHROCK

This Patch

I stand at the back in a trench coat

I stand at the front fully nude

Radio says to take a left

I swerve and my belly turns to gravel

It shakes like maracas being turned every so slightly

My ears evaporate from the rhythm and I watch through the sunroof as ear mist floats into the blue

Specks of orange earwax rain down and I try to catch it with my tongue

My neck will drive for a while

I stand at the back in a trench coat

I stand at the front fully nude

Peel me like garlic not like an onion

Chop off the ends and then roll me around forcefully on the counter until the skin can be

snatched off like the fedora of a bald man

I stand at the back bald and in a fedora

In a fedora and bald

I stand at the front of a queue to watch a live scoring of the only silent film I’ve ever seen

Im a 32 year old in purple glasses and some sort of scarf

I have a book open at the bar during a 15 minute break at a jazz show

Soon the foursome led by a man whose lone stud earring does not overshadow his boyish haircut

and his grey nike running shoes will play thelonious monk a name I happen to recognize

When they begin to play I will sit down and I’ll close my eyes and grin because I am enjoying the jazz music

I am there with no one but everyone is there with me I think

That night in bed I will start to read my book and need to go back a few pages to remind myself

what has been happening

When I get back to where I started I will decide im too tired to read and go to sleep

My neck is still driving the taxi

It has been driving for so long it has taken a name

Ariadne

She longs to see the world

We’re driving to Montreal now

She’ll do some French duolingo along the way

Sooner or later we will have a falling-out and she’ll cut me off

I a head rolling on the asphalt

Soon to be either crushed like a watermelon dyed fuchsia with food coloring

Or lodged stuck in the sewer grate where

Various liquids will slowly seep into me from the street over time

until I turn a bloated grayish purple which will bring out the green in my eyes

But my eyes aren’t green they’re hazel

I stand at the back

You stand there with me

I brought you here

I did this


Ben Shrock (he/him) is a writer of sorts living in Los Angeles, CA. He aspires to one day be a website.

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A THING by KHALID MITCHELL

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TWO POEMS by ALEX CARRIGAN