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.
MELISSA BRODER / CARRIE MURPHY / A.T. GRANT / CARRIE LORIG / JOHN STEEN & LAURA STRAUB / JOHN DERMOT WOODS / HEATHER CHRISTLE / JOSHUA KLEINBERG / CASSANDRA TROYAN / DAVIS MACKS / SCOTT ABELS / SARAH CARSON / MATT HART
THE SKY IS FALLING
They knocked down another house in the neighborhood.
One loud naked morning two more will go up in its place.
They call Venice the City of Falling Angels because the
people who live there resist change with the sad veracity of
a body battling back against decrepitude. The buildings
crumble and molder like an aging face, the city rife with the
terrible beauty of life turning in on itself. We will call this
the Summer of Falling Bricks, but later it won’t be the
empty lots, barren as defunded excavations, that you
remember, nor the biblical implications of another
hurricane in the gulf while Oklahoma blistered with
drought, drawing the crickets like locusts in swarms. But
the image of a single cricket behind the toilet, not dead but
dying, how it seemed for a moment to shudder and grow in
the nourishment of your gaze, will startle you awake
intermittently for years. You want so badly for everything
to be beautiful.
SHAUN OF THE DEAD
you eat the popcorn
I’ll tell u what scares me
The film where the woman
Misses her last train
And shit goes down
You turn yr head towards
The window and
say the film about a family
of cannibals? Whose
dad died and they had
to carry on – the kiwi
spills two green liquid
dots on the tablecloth –
I remember when you
Came into work, i thought
You were the beautiful
Woman, with peach lips!
On that cartoon
That bones clicked
Every time he moved
You eat the popcorn
Oh yes skin crawling
Out of the window
Don’t stop it let
It go bye you
Throw it in yr
A blue r O
NOKIA LUMIA 920
I find the pube next to my pillow
and hold it up to the light from my phone I am
allowed into this world, it is nt just
yours, it is for anyone, there is a
funeral passing through the estate
but you’re in love and you’re just done
you’re A-levels every one of your
folders is a sherbet colour you
put on your gold hoop earrings
and put in your gummy headphones
you walk everywhere and its summer
the boys in black pass you and you
stare at your x best friend who has
dark skin and the lips of a lipglossed
crispy cream or like those clowns
in the simpson’s you’re going to uni
if you get what you want and all this
all of what you were will wipe itself
They say it is important to keep busy.
To have hobbies. I do these things
but nothing shifts. I can pretend I am an animal
but it is mostly a lie. I do have busy, feral hands.
I am sorry. Finding my way towards rot is a constant
accident, and the stories come out of my mouth
before I have time to dress them
in more acceptable clothes: I left my young self
with a sore to pick and now she bleeds
into the present tense. Each bruise is a remora
slowing the current, another jaw around me in the dark.
FRIDAY THE 13TH
we make fried egg sandwiches
& you cry as we watch him
bury her body. we walk
down a street in brooklyn heights
called love lane, ugly
& treeless. we kiss under the bridge,
its wires like a giant’s guitar strings.
we fill our noses with river.
you tell me about your fantasy
of fucking me on the subway. later,
when we fuck, I stare at the candles,
how the flames dance & snap for us
& I make noises like some animal
until my throat burns, whiskey,
in a way I know I’ll still feel