&
2020“&” is a collection of prose, poetry and flash fiction exploring dichotomies: right/wrong, fact/fantasy, nature/civilization. Brutal honesty drags these works by the scruff of its neck into the land of the living. Each poem stems from an obsession--with a thought, emotion, circumstance—which demands to be let out in the yard, sniff around, relieve itself. Like an untrained mutt, this collection tugs on its leash, shits where it wants to, perhaps even bites back.
OLDENTIHSK (EXCERPT FROM “APPROACHING PERFECTION”), CHANCEY GLOWER
co-written with Jed Hardy
In empty wheat fields metal silos ring
Out! Go, oh love
The yellow door is closing. I’m in the women’s bathroom
With grandfather’s doll raging inside me. The Dress
is made out of
polyester begins its life
at the cathedral
is made out of mud.
I can see my mother.
Ten five ten five
No love at JCPenney
Who is said, Asid,
Body hydrate
Body Lyve
Secret brother
heal my daughter
speak not of decay.
Wake up prisoner!
Woe these borders
See change
& Lilith with her wrists so relaxed
VICTORIA’S SEAFOOD
Car attack
King crab motorcycle
[unintelligible] rip
one off til’ Christmas
Jason Christ, upside-down hanging man,
Your hands are red
Mess
in
Desert.
Ethan Boom & Gorgeous Girl
In collaboration with Jed Hardy. An album called “The Devil As Time” written by EB & GG. I am not ready to share this with the world.Tracklist:
1. Don’t Drink
2. Cops Are Like Balloons
3. Syndrome
4. F.B.I.
5. Sinkhole
6. South of the Border
7. Don’t Go to the Club
COPS ARE LIKE BALLOONS
Cops are like balloons you can pop ‘em
and God won’t care
(no God won’t care)
He reads my Miranda rights
right to stay silent
but with this guitar?
I can’t abide by it
[guitar solo]
Queen-sized Feast
A collection of poems exploring gluttony and desire.SEXY ALBATROSS
Why does he grip
my neck with his wings — to smother
a confession or choke
it out of me — Yes it was
my arrow, but remember? you, hovering,
& I — adrift on a loveless
and sleepless
sea—hungry.
The Priest’s Knee
Each poem in this collection is an uncurling of a finger, an unclenching of the hand. I let them lay where they may. I allow my own life to seep into my stories. I accept my own experience as truth, valid enough to be drawn from despite never being experienced by another, not quite like I have. I am my own fact-checker, authenticator, vindicate. I trust the wanderings of my mind, from goat-slaughter to father-daughter.WOMAN,
pinch’d senseless, tormented,
beaten into the shape
Of an Apperishtion.