Evolver / Forget Spring / Pipelines / by Tim Paggi




A poet drowns a MacBook,

receives eleven "likes."

She scans her laptop by starlight.

The loneliest poptart

drifts from its spaceship,

made, too, of universes.

I slather my obelisk

in black moonbeams.

My face is a jagged edge

crushed by comets.

"Speak to me," says mother, darkly

when the night is dead and dark.

God says “Dark enough for you?”

I say not dark enough.




Forget Spring


The girl in the tiger print shirt

looks up from her coffee,

and I look back to my book.

These days, I’m all A to B.

Goal oriented, alone,

pacing from red cafe

to blue mailbox,

under a yellow umbrella.

My face sizzles in puddles.

I judge my interior

as not a zero,

but as rain inside the zero.

This is my most perfect rain,

but I lost so much to find it.






I excrete in silence,

take long dank showers,

inhale steam alone.

Each instance of water

flows unknown corridors

that I want to see,

that I want to swim too.

What dark well do I drink from?

Show me liquid’s secret source.

What vague purifications

does it endure far below

my house of lying furniture?

To greet my soap and razor

beneath this morning mirror.






Tim Paggi is the author of Work Ethic, a chapbook out from InkPress Productions. He lives, works and performs in Baltimore, MD.