JONNY COLLAZO
BLISS & GETTING PAID
sorry for crying
I am so near my perfect abdomen
my socks milk my story, golden spikes
pour from my miserable state of exits
and I occasionally hurt our phone
with thighs in blood pancakes.
Why did I ever do that labor piece
Two of the same men I curl as
as horn-material
crown crown shoulder pads
It smells like weed my power discourse
my justice little brave braille baby
and who’s getting buried under SAPPHIC MAN stones
That’s my ford mermaid
I dream I don’t dream my lives dwell
man is whisker dust and see-through trashcans
and my inner-Schoenberg breaks
this pipsqueak is comin’ home.
I believe in children like I believe in aliens.
They obliterate all my hellcats,
it’s really crazy in terms of significance
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THERIOMIMETIC
Nine inches from the moon, look: map-down feel.
Breeze as evolutionism. Bad bang, nap too lost
in the general yaw I took to should. Sororal buttes,
pollen slalom. Still adamantine. New line of eating.
T., and damn the profits, the walls have urns.
False mouth of schmalz, truffles.
Pancho Sanza in the Berkshires, the bongo bush,
home of the cognac beetle who is parasitic with curls
from the squeeze tree. Look: zero inches from the moon.
Keep story a pill away, a bat crying from us.
Sam-I-Am the heck, Siam, scenes of henchmen,
three-inch henchmen, their kite in auroras.
I rest my sprinter and send what I call stirrups
to nerd-out until the herders give up.
Thin owls will temporarily die. There cease, surcease,
lore, spatiotemporal steroids. Lark: no, heark: !
hurry, sugar: spirit
inches from the smooth moon.
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Jonny Collazo’s most recent publications are Antiquity Antiquity (Creative Writing Department) and The High & The Low (New Books).