Poetry by ethan s. evans

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. 

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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.

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ethan s. evans (they/them) is a poet trapped inside of a brief third person bio. they tweet as @ethanevanssucks ​