One Ran Day Low

 

Adieu on tour the paler gaffes

have pantone lathed in figure

sifted lest fireplugs spout tone.

Then’s rift had sod tossed in it.

Halve as such begun by seeping, so.

 

Wafts I file I collate inside I will.

 

Will u? ‘If’ uplifts fatal wishes.

I give it 2 months top but lean

with me a moment at the edge,

no figure at end lents the fake limp

if having been named is good. Fine.

 

Lakes tint at the pain I’ve made.

In this plot leaking faltered loss.

 

Since error comes tailored lint

is finer easy and then as easy I,

appeased, can make war spout

from any hole a puncture likes.

What spurts a pain knows hurt

is intimate until the hinting’s end is.

 

Immersed in like it really ends mean.

 

Hi

 

Hi, my name is Transhumanist Technocrat Lovestory, what’s yours?

Hi, my name is Artisan Personalpan Pizza, what’s yours?

Hi, my name is Fictional Truism Ofselfdetermination, what’s yours?

Hi, my name is Kuade Smith, what’s yours?

Hi, my name is Donaldbarthelme’s Firstdrinkof Theday, what’s yours?

Hi, my name is Foulprone Powerforward, what’s yours?

Hi, my name is Pavlovian Excessesin Socialwelfare, what’s yours?

Hi, my name is Givemeallyour “Money” Youdumbfucks, what’s yours?

Hi, my name is Goodly Winemaker, what’s yours?

Hi, my name is Whataboutbobviewing Willbe Seatedshortly, what’s yours?

Hi, my name is Global “Unifiedfield Theoryscepticism” Warming, what’s yours?

Hi, my name is Ardor’s Pique, what’s yours?

Tufts uplift sifts thru flattened sculptural Lays bags, ruffled chips become little crushed objets, real crumbs, making, among the questions, into Which air is the sculpted air, among this other air, please consider this? If frequency verifies anything it’s that one thing continues to exist, I’m at a total loss of how to justify for two… suppose N is urgency, the inherent correspondence between need and lack that subsists in speed’s almost gravitational field, but then one gets handed the donut, it happens Tuesdays, and thereby

all sags into singularity anon.

Taste succumbs to what with speedier fealty than friendship?, gather what quarks the courtyard’s mandolin forgets, who is to say the softest thing is not also the sharpest, that which none can touch for sharpness, even as one tries, continually, trying by pushing one’s palm, so open, against it, the supple flesh, the hand split twain, the agent, though, is suppler, I assert, sharply, impossibly softly…. Give me a hand, the pill has to take, I thrust terror at pathos’ garden, it stimulates growth, of a type,

a peak resists belaboring

it merely crumbles away from what barrels down upon it

thereby it retains its name regardless of

all quality.

 

Intuit I’ve Lead

 

thru this frame; the wheat pouts and

you gots to know it’s gone, him up

hefting, and, with the grunting…. He

sweating. Would what’s ballady gift

Samuel Johnson his gloating,

his dun parlors

then’d held riles.

Would’s willing its form into fact.

 

The Sore Throat is the book

I should have been reading

for this full past week and a half.    (I say this because I have had one.)

The Dead Father’s what

I should read in his sleep:

(repeat it) a wishing I had one.

 

That the beleaguer limits and

that believing’s a limit is plenty, form

cradling its sodden face. Who’s facet let this

thesis wilt. Halls glisten. Whence sound’s hit?

Fanciful the cactus who bends in. When

Barthelme’s white fur smothers my face, his

gurgle composes the

I it absolves.

 

 

 

 

Logan-Fry-Dream-Pop-PressLogan Fry lives in Austin, Texas, edits Flag + Void, and has poetry in or forthcoming from publications including Fence, PreludeNew American Writing, Imperial Matters, and Best American Experimental Writing.