Writing reviews is not my forte; therefore, this is a not-review. Behold below, two poems by me and a hybrid-y thingie by Megan Martin, inspired by Moth Moon by Matt Jasper.
Purdy Group Home Van, Flat Tire
Hurdling through a human steeplechase of
Ditchwater, weed, and dirt to what
Who’s got the joy gun, and the jack
Cutting through rust and the whipping whipping
Wind of the road
Tire’s skin split like
Dry lips and here we are with insufficient
Supervision and handfuls of atomic
Fireballs and one wheelchair to every
None of the other tires fit.
Donuts and tubes and filling and
Looking at the sparkles in the dirt.
Purdy Group Home Theatrical Exploration
A man who is not a famous sexual
predator mumbles in a
corner and everyone applauds as far
as teeth-grinding can be
A man who is not a famous artist
steals a screwdriver from his
therapist and secretes
it on his person.
A woman who is not a
murderer does not
like vegetables and keeps
her lips to
herself. A person in
charge is the person
in charge, doing the
things one would expect.
The staff who had contact get sent home early.
It is never the therapist’s fault.
Moths Describe The Moon
His skin like is fly paper candy. Her skin is the cuddliest kitten. Its skin is a scrubbed universe in our mouths. Later, overfed, we vomit our moon on the floor and furry wet sparkles light up our carpets.
Anastasia arrived today. She sticks to the moon like something splattered, sucking.
My hands said I would never find the moon, but then I was inside it swimming and it held me up and my hands weren’t leaves anymore and my hands were webs of light that didn’t fall apart in wind.
I shook my head against the pillow until a bald patch appeared. I shook my head until it bled onto the pillow but nobody noticed. I shook my head until my head was an oozing black strawberry in a dead forest where the moon stood guard.
My body was ashes I was falling into the cracking center of. It’s scary to fall like that, but at the center of the noose is the moon and it’s good to be in the center of something.
Anastasia says things are not very interesting on the moon. The ladykiller was more interesting, she says. I abhor the green yards of suburbs. But it’s easy for her to say that from here.
There is no place for God on the moon because the moon replaces God and is way better.
Anastasia says Pleased to meet you, moon, but really she is plotting a murder. She wants the moon to know what it’s like to wake up with rotten teeth to a room of ladykillers, to ovens of the dead. The moon don’t know shit, she says.