Streetboy, please What I need is a thousand tiny
kinfolk to point me toward the nougaty epi-
center of mine own heart I hear there's a trailer
park there where my tiny electronic voice lives
I hear there's a star that waters your ugly
I hear contentment seeping from a too-small chair
I am stepping into one pantleg then another
and another and another and another and another
I am thinking there's a mesmerism furloughed
in this possum not going away and what is this
diagram coming out of my face trying to mean?
We could be so far away from absolutely nothing
and unending it is like that sometimes nowhere
near this place where a string is happening
unimaginably inside our moment inside our
widening us-ness A spindly clairaudience
a soiled rainbow a burst of chickens a diminutive
Buddha a rookie seawall—All of it ours Hours
I deactivate the fake blood in your arm
The clouds are fake blood The sun is a Thin Mint
with ketchup on it the ketchup is fake blood O
lovely landscape O lovely lover you are my beer money
you are a caresser of limbs whose limbs are
in turn caressed by dirigible-me/the me manning
the man-me I am a like bear stirred from its slumber
party You will know me by my rumpled duvet,
my coat gone widdershins You will know me by
the sprites perennially chillaxing on my shoulder
I am the man who would click a thousand links
to get to you the kind of man who would climb a
medium-size tree for you the kind of man that
has a head, the kind of head that is always seen hung
down, the kind of head as seen before sleep
That is the kind of head that is seen on this man,
this man who is that kind of man O lover,
isn't it weird how much tomorrow there is?
Me I loved him well He glitterbombed the trees
just so At last, the horses are completed,
Bonne Fête! (OK! [say in a dumb voice])
This is a sunset it is la Fontaine-Gourde, no?
The water is under water is under construction
the water it takes a long time to build
so go & guard me a desert
in which I star a collection of maps
I am the priest of cold showers I have for you
this welterwish I have for you more sky
Nope, turns out I have for you is more tunnel
God is my overalls A cloud is in me it is trying
to push itself out through my eyes
I'm bursting into bricks, Alban,
so build me a home I can take with me into
the clouds, the clouds that came here on horseback
Alban Fischer is the author of the chapbook Status Area (Varmint Armature, 2011). His work has appeared in BlazeVox, Kindling, Past Simple, Thieves Jargon, Untoward, and elsewhere. He is the founding editor of Trnsfr, a content editor at Artifice, and writes the biweekly column "Color Bars" for the Curbside Splendor blog. He lives in Grand Rapids, Michigan, where he designs things in exchange for food.
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