[Table of Contents]



Cameron Lovejoy



Uh, poetry is fossil—far too hard for me.
A prehistoric food group for the crown, and now
the people's people's people's art.
Yes, I am bickering, I know. True. A key. Some oddly
spun deeds, and a pest I am. When Stephen King
goes on to say that stories equal found things,
like fossils in the ground, Amy Poehler calls
bullshit—it's not that easy Stephen! I agree,
I think? I guess they aren't poets. I guess
I'm s'pposed to dwell in possibility, find the sharp
hot stink of fox inside my head. But what I excavate?
A turd I hurl at the chalkboard
watching a Rorschach form, revealing for me
the final form. Is it a sun yet? I coo: free purse!
One argument of poetry, of paleontology
teeters between religion and reliving lesions;
I think that science matters here somewhere. God
damn! It was the meter (right?) that killed them?
Asteroid? Toy asterisks*? I take a skeleton and on it
hang words like skin grafts, hotwire all their DNA
with A-N-D & ampersand-paper the shit out of it—
em dash, kaput, the end—but is it finished yet, full-bodied?
I'll never know. Sometimes I drink so much I force it
out, a truck revving, reviving on petroleum, en route
to the end of a line—sometimes it works. But mostly
I just make the jury sick by Dylan Thomasing all over
the carpet, screaming throw me that phone
book—watch me pterodactyl in half!

*where the f*ck was I going with this?




a mural                                                                                    

with my left hand I paint observations, with             
the ancient handle,  

tool of the artist—its bristles blend
lines between each pigment

cross hatch a thatch roof
on & in a burning field, the forest
on the canvas—

a meal. the medium used by the artist

depicts memetics endlessly,
& gets elected

the best
oils follow gears of the brain, figures
from the people who pose

for the franchise
against the overlord
burning in the field

into darkness. a bright
brush—my love 
it thrills me how well you stipple
the scumble—


on morals:                                                                                    

my right
the bright blade, I carve out the wildebeest—           

the pithy gristle of impure flesh
dissolves like butter in the pan.

lines & x's on the skin
creatures now charcoal
castrate whole pastures of cattle.

body color is crucial in cooking down
a country

whose genes bleed the hearts of hungry others
for a feast.

oils baste, burn, wage war on the loin,
against the fleshy grain for profit
for the flavor

the succulent gore
that tastes of sweet defeat, the fond,
like the protest of death, scraped

beast, the basting
above the grill's inferno
with the tip of a pistol
the long shadow of this hand.




so punk rock > so marked up > so what's this
patchy Adam's apple scruff bottom genes
boots with the frill on the toe > trend > happening?

it really all > Johnny Depp > ends on the day:
excessive accessories > shredded T-shirts
a lawsuit suitable for a three piece suit

for all my ladies out there looking for that
no makeup makeup look look no further
follow > these six easy steps > for maximum blasé!

Chanel flannel > a Cinderella thrift story > over
& ever in debt to your priceless > add vice!
Kurt Cobain > of my existence

try our Give No Shits Pomade to shake your palm
fronds frantic > hurricane country gnaw > ing on
split ends > look at this > Mark Mc > Graph!

turn on your phone > unlock it > now go
into Settings > General > Keyboard > tick off
Auto-capitalization > tick off

all your friends & family > who
notice > all the effort it's taking




okay—oKAY—i'll call NINE—ONE ONE—just wait one goddamn minute—I know it looks bad—I mean FUCK—imagine feeling it—but let it finish first—sit—observe—the dog's ugly tusks sink their yellow in the nerve—feel it—thrash & tear the flesh—blubber victim to a big propellor—fuck!—call FEMA—it's got my femur!—its fur—how coarse—this course of action—sit!—inaction—feel it all arise—pass away?—arise pass away!—it just wants a rise—out of you—to tug the heads & tails of your ball of mating snakes—until they unravel—go awry inside the veins—just one little movement never hurt anyone—right?—why not—dislodge the carnage—just this once?—that's all—what could go wrong?—did I leave the oven on?—what day is it?—how many more minutes?—my entire past on blast—the future on tap—sex sex sex—Texas is a massive state—crustacean mania—Nick Cave—is Nirvāṇa real?—okay—oKAY—I'll call NINE ONE—NO—NO—I know better than that—practice makes a prefect of the limbic system—sit still against the gnashing teeth—raw jewels in your human sewerage—mined—set upon the altar of the author to admire—arise pass away—eviscerating shivs indispensable—arise pass away—endure the murder of an impulse—arise pass away—breathe—breathe in the rabies—pet the pit bull's head—if you know what's good for you




I stood in my tunic and lipstick musing all possible contingencies     
that I was like the sword hung from my belt      or maybe
a spoon      the hugging sort of cutlery

I fluttered my lashes in the mirror      curtsy winked
and set a soft wrist on my side    /    Frampton saw me do it     
summoned me with the word they once called sticks

to burn witches with      his jockstrap hung
at his battle skirt      a smear of dissenting lipstick      a sword      
no manner of clothing or makeup could change him

the same jerk backstage as during recess     
during class      during lunch      during fun
abuse on the bus      his army formed behind him     

put your hand on your hip      he bellied up and barked
I ached in acquiescence      a boy      glad in his lipstick     
sad in his school      Put Your Back Hand On Your Hip!

he lurched      my sphincter pursed    /    I stumbled to balance
both sides of my body      gracing my hips with not one
but both hands 

the left:      like John Wayne in every role      the right:     
a waitress      at the end of a shift      her cigarette
too heavy to hold







The questions in these poems rattle forever in my head. How do I actually write poems and appear like I know what I'm doing? Why am I never one hundred percent gung-ho about anything (including saying "gung-ho")? What do fashion and appearance represent, especially for those who try to look like we don't give a shit? How do I stay mindful during severe pain? What is masculinity really??? Something like answers arises every now and then, and it's pretty imperative they make it into a poem so I can move on and not stop thinking about it still.