He’s the most amazing &
already they take him, fate
beautys up the mirror, wonders
how ever one gets used to tighter.
I wake alone & say Jack
until I lose & the white
of my eyes vibrate & blood
drips in rios down my nose.
Almost a model, food-
trays slip through the tiny
slit an effort to ingest, down
25 lbs. feeling born all over again.
They try in every way to reach
you. They flatter, they promise
you things they can never give.
In silence you sit not even nodding
your head. At night pedal
an invisible bike. Day paces
like dinosaur string sticking
to the wall. New larva. Draw
a shovel over your bed. Draw
a hole. Draw a blonde girl wearing
a short skirt. Draw cloud city.
Draw just enough so you can see
the edge of her white panties.
I move slowly fingers over
my hip bones, ribs, skin is so
so white & clear. Hair unkempt
like it that way. With a pen missing
its shell (so not to hurt) I write
a letter to you then rip it to shreds.
I start over and describe the apples
in my dream. I mention my blonde
girlfriend Lindsay, my fingers always
moving. Your eyes like two Jupiters
floating over me before I fall off to sleep.
Charles Kell is a PhD student at The University of Rhode Island and editor of The Ocean State Review. His poetry and fiction have appeared in The New Orleans Review, The Saint Ann’s Review, IthacaLit, and elsewhere. He teaches in Rhode Island and Connecticut.
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.