Potluck

 

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Potluck 2.0 launching soon! See you in the new year!

 

TWO: TRANS PLANET

THE ILLUSIONIST

Glitter beyond a hoax or a backlit dream, the glance that knew no-one yet atoned. Numb fog, a knob controlling shadows, you stretch scary icons within flowers. Come singing, arid on sky, snakes that feign with what hopes my likeness. Now my likeness in screenglow, breed dazzling ghosts.  Let linger conundrum. We can hold contradictions if gentle. 

That is a lie, or even empty of truth value, empty of the holy, the lack huge as towers. This is good, this is where we want to begin: what comes after hope? I detest overwrought ways of saying what exists. I already know what the fuck is going on. 

I only like states of being in poetry. If I'm being poetic I'm coping. There's a flattening, too fluffy, a quantum foam of harsh vibes pinioned to the logic of resilient labor.

I'm in love with a Punk doctor moonlighting as an illusionist. Favorite book: The Shock Doctrine, Naomi Klein.

 

THE HOUSE THAT SWALLOWS TEARS

Bearded gust. Frozen ash. House of looms. House saying, the world disappears when you look at it too long. World without glimmer. The face becomes a butterfly net. Wounded razor. Boiling mirror. Love has a face like a chickenwire fence. Forgotten shelter. Fuss to make time. Change shape to dirge. White dress and clutter. The face balls into a fist. The house snickers like fire. The dead grass says fear is the most divine emotion. The skin of the house rustles. Dust hiding in the light. The house that swallows tears. We are here to burn you down. History is baby's breath and we are hyacinths. People are homesick for fantasies. People are living like drums, beaten by another and in fear of unknown gods. People are being reborn as squalls. People lock themselves away in their bodies and long to escape their braided hair like butterflies. People are breathless and sugar-eyed. People are empty bottles inside of insects. The air thick with the lit house now. The flame unfurls like a year. You are a firefly now, house. It all makes sense in the words of my dead language. The universe gives birth to itself. No-one is able to chop off both hands and toss them in the river without another person's help. 

 

LIVING WITHOUT MEMORY

It’s 2:03am EST. Where are YOUR unborn children? In the pallid winds of a bonedust night ensconced in the whorl of forlorn sirens you hear your name called. A small voice inside your phone beckoning you. I’m trapped, it says. Help me. Above and all around you is a panoramic billboard that says “WET YOURSELF, HORNBUCKET” with a picture of a taupe, chalky-looking square pastry. You put your hand in your pocket to feel your phone’s cold warmth, your thumb twiddling a belt loop. You feel the cry of the ancestors as they abandon you, their pinkies raised as they sip cocktails in a transdimensional, achronal revery. Your god will come pick you up soon, they say. The brittle one with the fat face like a bundle of wires. Seek the pink taxi. The driver will give you a copy of an important text, Letting Go of Hope: A Self-Help Manual. You will need this for where you find yourself, or lose yourself, bae. They ride away on burning doves and from the glint of a dusty streetlight off a carabiner on the ground you enter a wretched fractal and intone, “This ice cream shop is called CLOUD CITY.” Share this status within five minutes of seeing it or you will die, it says.

 

 

manuel arturo abreu is a Dominican poet and artist from the Bronx. They are interested in smooth jazz conceptualism, decolonizing decolonization, and the names of gods. Their book List of Consonants is available from Bottlecap Press. See more of their work at twigtech.tumblr.com and @Deezius.