Security Code:

Black Dog Found

Behind some airport some quiet organ -ization ignites a portable flare stack. Cindy, whose depression is tropical, is not yet a hurricane. Like a prophet I bore this news of rain in my thorax, secretly, a tumor encapsulated. My mother telling me this version rarely kills. Sixty-six shots from a rifle of the SKS kind but the congressman will walk again. They’ve cancelled this weekend’s festivities out of an abundance of caution. A tractor transmutes itself into dark smoke. One assumes it has the proper permits. The radio maintains a persuasive volume as we pass the yellow flier taped to its telephone pole in search of the crisis it solved: BLACK DOG FOUND.


A Sprawling Room by Manhattan Standards

This body runs     properly enough.
Don’t you     get it?
The palace     is a courtyard.

Look at all the     tiny functioning
people with their     powerplant addictions and skin
-sized therapy worksheets.     Doctor my papers

have already been submitted.     I gained
admission under false     -tto but my voice is in my chest.
The windows     smaller than advertised.

It’s a godsend     this whole
being sick thing.     You don’t really have to eat.


Ohio Will Be Eliminated

Longish night, longer dusk. Enough gold to slate the dead ash
trees. Handiwork of the emerald borer, a fist piloting the coppery truck.  
Post-prandially pulled the chrome grill back to position.  
Had amassed two vegan patties, five or six full meat. Sometimes you get dead.
Slathered in croissants. A mixed bag of deads: Needle-feeder. Unliving
wages. Coil up in a birdhouse like a pile of blind hunger. Snake unhinges its own jaws.


Matthew Kosinski is a poet, socialist, and occultist from New Jersey. He holds an MFA from The New School and is managing editor of Pithead Chapel. His work has appeared in The Millions; Always Crashing; No, Dear; and elsewhere.






Featured image courtesy of George Carter.