Carl Wycoff CC
THE ONLY GHOST IN THIS HOUSE IS THE HOLY GHOST
needling the hurricane's eye
on the cereal box couch
at the punk house as people honk
at the HONK FOR JESUS banner.
possums are always fucking
under the porch, which is to say
i'm always imagining possums fucking
under the porch as i leaf through
medical bills mailed to renters past.
checked all the boxes
at the plasma donation center
but still couldn't find the vein.
pitching herbal remedies
for incurable diseases until they run me off
the stoop of the free clinic, skin
sloughing off a redbud as sunlight
angles in from the well's fargo tower.
my cabal of therapists, stationed
across from me at the howard johnson's,
all tell me that the self is an illusion. steam
rising from flapjacks, syrup all flood,
clay spilling into a river.
i am making this groupchat
to present amends to all those i have harmed.
financial remunerations are not in order
but i would like to offer my sincerest apologies:
greg, for having stolen your dog's pain medication.
mike, for having accused you of usury
during the divorce court proceedings.
sarah, for having erased your child's object permanence
in fit of rage.
for the rest i will offer the following from a fortune cookie
i found on the sidewalk:
YOU WILL BECOME GREAT IF YOU BELIEVE IN YOURSELF.
i have put my shipping magnate fortune
into the lucky numbers. i can feel
the pure throttle of consciousness
as i close my eyes while i drive down
the highway named after a dead marine.
morally compromised sonnet
spent my two months in the gig economy ferrying
buckets of chicken to condominiums and not getting laid.
went to the maoist reading group for the free lentils
and listened to fred talk about how we had to smash the state
to make a bigger state. the parks smelled like suntan lotion
and i hated everyone. jet streams carried charred pines
over the suburbs and children wandered around, ash-beaten
survivors of some unseen catastrophe. under pomegranate skies
teslas maneuver through lanes of traffic. too humid here
for sweat to dry, the weather report a wet bulb swung
into your face. plastic forks, pad thai cocooned in a bag hewn
from cellulose, heat-bonded, palmed over like a thimble of weed.
hard to shake, this feeling of being born too late. the electric
razor makes a noise like threshers advancing into wheat.
ethan s. evans (they/them) is a poet trapped inside of a brief third person bio. they tweet as @ethanevanssucks
Write something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview.