Lately, So Much Wallpaper’s Stuck on Things that Aren’t Walls,
The news networks blink in code,
send out psychic flare guns.
“Help. I’m an illusion.”
At a high school desk last week, in
a black and white TV static sweater,
a girl peeled an almost clear,
empty plastic cup of water into bits.
Why don’t more people question object permanence?
Everything else vanishes.
She set them down to make a nest
of realities, organised like clementine segments.
But still: quite the mess.
I’ve never seen my face before.
All my parallel universe selves,
who’ve given me that “I get it” look,
from my mirror’s off limits side,
I miss knowing what was real,
back when I was wrong.
I miss having ethical precedent over people.
I wish anger was a real feeling at least once.
Been punching through my room’s walls,
to get the cosmic surveillance rig to reveal itself.
I cut my arm open, again and
again to find some source code.
There’s someone on the sidewalk.
I want to rip all that gift wrap off,
fall to my knees
“So that’s what you look like.”
Daniel Kuriakose is an 18 year old high school senior who loves poems and is scared of dying. He lives in Woodbridge, CT.
Oracular the filtered light of oak
through her peignoir She comes to me as though
her spell was never broken I’m still twenty
I can smell those pungent oranges in the sun
I narrate to him that last night both partners
thought they’d given everything up for the other.
It was ugly. They didn’t get, they wouldn’t get,
what they’d hoped for. I editorialize
that I think rage is clichéd in marriage
after a decade and a half.
There was a study done
to prove that men and women
have different brains
to prove, I suppose, that
women are from venus
and men are from mars,
that men want to fuck
and women want to marry
or some garbage like that
the drinking glass
across the room
against the wall
I had said
a wrong thing
that what is frozen roars for eternity (and that’s too much for us) while gashes in our wrists will bleed ceaseless, fluttering crimson ribbons.
she hits the keys
with one finger
like she’s jabbing someone
in the shoulder
or chest during
a fight because they
refuse to listen
oh, blundering human,
tread your life’s labyrinth
back to the beginning
I have never slaughtered a pig.
My hands, though slathered with a sheen
Of melted flesh, are swiftly cleaned
With a simple paper towel.
The cottonwood trees watch. Whisper. A
lyrical business, theirs. Bored by the Wind
River, they turn toward the termite-nibbled
The Pacific begs me to swim away, anything
to keep us from strangling each other
on the boardwalk. The Freakshow
is where our love belongs, a two-headed
oddity feasting on dust and bone