The cows got out again, so Dad drives his rusted bronco through the neighbor’s orange groves.
Headlights catch a spotted haunch of meat; his revolver squeezes juice from unripe, yellow flesh.
I lock the old shed we never use. In daytime, sunlight cuts through and offers the cross sections
of a defunct sprinkler pump, a broken shovel, a crumpled snake’s skin deflating without its flesh.
She sits on my lap and chugs wine. You look high. Do you want to dance? I used to be addicted
to cocaine. In her locked dorm room, a desk lamp replaces our pink skin with moon-flesh.
I sneak into an unfinished high-rise, mildew and drywall covering my hands like the flesh
of jasmine vines. A sudden timbre of footsteps—squatters maybe, ghosts maybe, inked flesh or no flesh.
Jerrod Schwarz is an MFA student at the University of Tampa and is also the managing poetry editor for Driftwood Press. He has been published in Dirty Chai, Scapegoat, Four Ties Literary Review, and others. The above things are a little mundane. In his day to day life, Jerrod does whatever he can to escape the heat of his Floridian climate, and has been known to take part in staring contests with alligators who would challenge an otherwise refreshing swim.
Tulips lift toward the sun
not as lips parting,
but cycloptic eyes, self-blinding
to defy dozens of faces
that peer directly inside,
The news networks blink in code,
send out psychic flare guns.
“Help. I’m an illusion.”
I accidently knocked over
the Singer sewing machine,
an old black metal one I found
in a junk store.
The waves are shaped by sirens
and the sea walls built to echo
Bamboo and rain drum the time I was a child and my mother was mapping the neighborhood dynasty with her sister Corrine. For years they plotted to overthrow the geriatric mindset of their mother who kneaded Judaism into me and my sister’s Play-Doh.
Her chameleon eye in the moon
like a crater, and hair falling in meteors
over bare shoulders.
Forgetting how to swim
was like losing language,
a silencing of the limbs
that once knew fluid
like the vein of a wrist,
the curve of an eyelash
Madness is not the only art that consumes.
In our mind, rooms, and in them the scuff
of footsteps and faces veiled in tulle.
Once I was immortal,
condemned to endless mornings,
empty of the knowledge
of manmade rituals.
my parents have a joint facebook account bc my mom found out my dad was messaging someone name TexasTitties2006 in an online poker game and she lost. her. goddamn. mind and threw the tv down the stairs.