ISSUE ELEVEN: Yes, Sell My Art | next poem →


D.J. Parris

Shutting. The fuck. Down.
'Cept contemporary-like. Not

scaly “'this' big!” nightmare/
sparsely-furred thrinaxodon

nor more densely fletched
plantigrade forebears. Just me.

In a car. Zoom out x2. High over
winter miles. Corundum-plated

titanoboa glows red/steams
and steams/glows red. And I,

such an unsatisfying meal
the serpent slips forth every

morning and back as day darks.
I'm eaten asleep. Gone stay asleep

till flesh turns dirt. Wrong or
ignorant or (if lucky) perhaps right,

asking yourself as you hit, How
many hours did you get last night?

Finger the code, dial up 6:00am,
swallow juice and devices.

You come a set of leading
indicators. No bleeps or bloops.

Just indexes and thresholds,
supply chains, T-shirts and hats.

One image composed of images
of when, try or not, dying's done.

When we've become the blood
of a snake whose eyes and tail

are the morning and the night
to assholes who say shit like that

just the same as to those who don't.
It don't matter if you see it strike.

D.J. Parris has had recent work in Abridged, The Noble Gas Quarterly and Queen Mob's Tea House. He lives in Aldie, VA with his wife and son.

ISSUE ELEVEN: Yes, Sell My Art | next poem →

ISSUE ELEVEN: Yes, Sell My Art

Meghana Mysore
   Object Permanence

Candice Iloh
   Sexual Assault Survivor

Knar Gavin

Lori Anderson Moseman

Mehrnoosh Torbatnejad

Uche Ogbuji

Katherine Williams
   Math 345: Geometry of Solids

Taylor Napolsky
   A Naive Festive

Jennifer MacBain-Stephens
   Robot #15 (ornithology)

D.J. Parris

Laryssa Wirstiuk
   Dammit Doll

Merridawn Duckler
   Everything I Can’t Have in Luxe,
      Pacific Northwest Magazine of
      Interiors+Design, Spring 2016