Feng Sun Chen
What Are You Stoked About?
Brett Elizabeth Jenkins
Tara Abrahams, Liz Axelrod, Cassandra de Alba, Carolyn DeCarlo, Brooke Ellsworth, Suzi F Garcia, Gina Keicher, Adam J Maynard, Jackson Nieuwland, Katherine Osborne, Jesse Prado, Kelly Schirmann, Bob Schofield, Beach Sloth, Abigail Zimmer, and Jaime Zuckerman.
THIS IS THE LAST ISSUE OF NAP.
CAN’T BE SAD WITH GEESE
The goose juggler balances birds on his palm. Flips them high. Spins them like pizza dough. He does this with his eyes closed. In the dark of his quarry-cave he performs for rocks. He likes their blank, stony faces. He likes their names. ‘Obsidian, quartz, pyrite.’ He performs. His geese squawk. The stones do nothing. He likes the emptiness of his cave. His cave has no clocks. He can’t stand the pressure of passing minutes. He likes the pressure of geese feet in his hand, of feathers fluffed. As far as he knows he is the only man who can juggle geese. The only man who knows how geese rise and fall. He knows geese like he doesn’t know women. The geese aren’t derisive. The rocks don’t judge. Unlike the woman he left behind who left him gasping. Without clocks he doesn’t feel the passing of time. That yearning beneath. He stands on one foot and juggles five large geese. He does this for an unknown measure of time. He stops. The rocks eye him impassively. As she knelt before another man, she eyed him impassively. He watched them for one minute, then another. Deep in the cave, he takes a bow.
the weather reporter inside my body
is away in Bermuda. he likes to sit by the pool
reading some malcom gladwell book.
it makes him feel rich.
inside my body, there is a piece of copper
in the shape of a satellite
whose job is to confuse sperm.
It is a very serious but “simple” device:
it lacks complex desires or conflicts of interest.
it keeps getting emails from LinkedIn
about a managerial position at a Red Lobster in North Dakota,
but it is very loyal and cannot commute.
can you help me?
I am willing to go anywhere
I can take all of my problems and funny attitudes
for the same price as only taking myself
I don’t know why all my poems have fish in them
I have looked up everything on the Internet:
Ron Livingston, sexual activity of the popes,
where is legal to have a pet skunk
I am more human than you are
I say, because I am concerned with everything
I am going to sit on my feet at the end of the world
while my waning career of sentience
is pouring over myself and everyone
confused and celebratory
at the end of the world a yoga pose is still a yoga pose
You don’t have to hold my hand
because you aren’t holding my hand already
I look forward to going away separately
Have you ever Googled yourself
and found your mother’s obituary?
Take your sharpest paring knife
peel the firm, red rind of your hip,
slice open your calf and remove
the wet muscle, like popping
an edamame bean from its pod.
We went through her things
in a storage unit outside of Philly,
broken ornaments, pans with food
still stuck to them, a journal radioactive
“You can use this for entertaining!,”
her sister said, holding up a fondue kit.
I don’t even entertain myself.
I took the cricket cage,
a hinged metal box meant to hold
the symbol of good fortune.
I pictured it sitting on her dresser,
way back in a time
when we believed in something
so stupid as luck.