"Porsche crashes into 2nd floor office of Exit Realty Elite," "Passive aggressive idealism," and "Things that don't make sense when you are hungover"

Porsche crashes into 2nd floor office of Exit Realty Elite

Some paintings paint themselves

Some art exhibitions hang them up

To sell in refurbished buildings that realty and reality and the city provides

These lobbies, painting after painting of highbrow art cloned for highbrow clones

One day we will pick apples from buildings

We will bite into their red pink purple shine bricked goodness

No seeds, only mirrors

The harbored resentment drowned for miles

There are 3 bloodied fingerprints above the mail slot

There is a group of tourists taking pictures

There’ s enough museum space so we all can hang

Something that resembles a Jesus picks us off of buildings

And someone has printed this poorly painted picture

Places it next to the customer bathroom



Passive aggressive idealism

Spray paint lead based golden clouds blister bloom

Your time is dwindling and your heyday too

No literary art magazine can save you now

No pierced owl stare will peak your vision through

Your time is dwindling into a painter’s cup

Splattered throughout the doom

The fish head floats the sound in blue

Maps of your beleaguerment are meant for frontal lobe attacks

I am not like the sun; I don’t care where your shadow is at

Embroider all your thread willingly through one ear and out the through

From thousands they climb, from thousands they fall

Each in a petty pastel row, your time is dwindling

You can feel it in your blades, your shoulders pike

My hope has grown deep, my hope hangs on these power lines

Our time is dwindling and it’s time to learn how to kill towards the sea

It doesn’t matter the falcon, eagle or gripe

It matters the wings, it matters the spite

Our time is dwindling as the greying great owls take flight

This time here is dwindling and I have become prayer for somebody else to prey

My beak is cold and this reciprocity breaks

Squiggly lines that make no sense, time is dwindling

And no one gives an ache



(After Jee Leong Koh)

Things that don’t make sense when you are hungover

Airplanes. Water. Your hands. Turning 42.

The tilt of the. The stability of.

The color red. Laughing. Your hands.

Shiny things. Smiling. More. Beer.

Religious figures on lawns attached to an electrical socket.

Religious figures on lawns used as Christmas Decorations.

Eggnog. Gift wrapping. Your mother’s hands.



Thomas Fucaloro

The winner of a performance grant from the Staten Island Council of the Arts and the NYC Department of Cultural Affairs, Thomas Fucaloro has been on six national slam teams. He holds an MFA in creative writing from the New School and is a co-founding editor of Great Weather for Media and NYSAI press. He is an adjunct professor at Wagner College and BMCC where he teaches world lit and advanced creative writing. He teaches poetry at Prison Writes. His latest chapbook, There is Always Tomorrow was released in 2017 by Mad Gleam Press. Since 2016, Thomas has helped in building a community of poets in Staten Island, focusing on making poetry accessible to all, either though the Life*Vest*Poetry Slam, The Who Needs Healing? Reading Series, or the free workshops offered at Staten Island Libraries and other various organizations. 


Edited for Unlikely by Jonathan Penton, Editor-in-Chief
Last revised on Monday, January 27, 2020 - 22:49