THREE POEMS by JOHN LING

CHRISTIE’S INSURED MY DICK FOR NEGATIVE ONE MILLION DOLLARS

O Love they ran out

of party mix at Costco

I could not believe it

I picked up

smoking and called

every girl Grace

as if God had forgotten

about influenza

and Brahms

and the way it feels

to pack a suitcase when you’re going

someplace as superfluous

as California

where I once felt a sadness

so big that tomatoes sprang

from the earth where

my tears fell

but none of this matters

now that I am a person

with concerns

like giving Dutch kisses in the wind

and finding out why motels smell like that

Love

remember when a night

at the Peacock Inn cost

thirty bucks and a bottle of Lysol

I think it was the year somebody won

the World Series

and I threw up

on your good shoe

and you told me

I was God’s first

and only mistake


ALAS THAT I WAS BORN!

Heaven might mean nothing more

than the simple absence

of California

but I suppose you spend your time

dealing with beautiful problems

like the declensions

of the Latin words

for stuffed animal

and weighted blanket

so let me be brief in saying

it is Tuesday morning

and I have been in love

and I have been in Las Vegas

and neither one

will leave you alone

for five minutes

before shoving

a cocktail in your face

and telling you

life is okay

because we all make a little money in the end

and those who get their dicks sucked

get their dicks sucked on behalf

of those who don’t

so it is a good idea

to have a calendar

on your wall

and fill it

with the things

you will do

on the days

you will do them


TO MONTANA ON EIGHTH STREET IN THE RAIN

Sure, tie my shoes together—I’ll sit down

to piss and lap prosecco off the floor

like Judy Garland if she were the crown

imperatrix of troughs. Let’s drink Dior

and Gucci and Chaumet—I want to smell

as good inside as out. As for those keen-

on-Frankfurt-School garçons: I’m buying bells

to hang around their necks. And if I keep

a half a dozen Hestia butts to list

on eBay ‘cause they’re stained the sacred red

of Meg’s wine spangled mouth—who cares? I’d kiss

raccoons for her. But love, for you, I’ve read

timetables—any bus you want to get

run over by: it’s coming. Hope you’re wet.


John Ling (he/him) lives and works in New York City.

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TWO POEMS by AMBER WREN

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THREE POEMS by DAVI SCHWEIZER