Sam Pekarske
the last diatribe doesn’t sweat the small stuff
“and
we’re all
going to
fucking
die”
bomb/drums bleating,
quietly building cries for asylum
to the west, we wait for asylum
to asylum, a toast–
is it more than right or righteous
to sound alarms in the midwest
when the songs on the radio
are this fucking good?
so what
we’re all fucking dying anyway,
we’ve become quite good
at this death game
where do I put the polymath,
trade Newark for beach stones,
sing apocalyptic and shitty jazz
with all of this surmounting winter gaze/game, fried-up nonsense?
this swath and swatch of ground game
this swass and seasonal affective disorder game
this diatribe of loose loneliness
grew tiring before my heart,
in front of its chambers
a speaker in surround
in lighting claps and thunder strikes
but what about the creeping people?
but the people, they sleep so sound in their beds
the people sleep so sound in their beds
so sounding
so sounding
so sounding
so sounding
POEMS I WAS OBVIOUSLY TOO DRUNK TO WRITE WELL
just like it was
happily ever
a “just for fun”
amble to the
pre-ambular or
lax nature
of sleeping through sunset
and into the wake,
of widower practice and
pockets full of silver,
fuckery and windswept bangs
and eyebrow natures of the
“until death do us no longer fun”
into one another at the food and liquor
variety
spelling ess-es
with seas
splitting the ill with a kill in ingenuity
as the fresh hand cramp
resurfacing period,
uncomfortably welcomed
after a rushed penning
(how silly, of shock poetry
to read my nightly regressions)
unto teenage-esque
anonymities
–or–
how many teas are asleep
in spearmint
Sam Pekarske is a real creep from Milwaukee, Wisconsin and the curator of the two poetry reading series Short Shots and Poets Read Some Stuff Someplace in Milwaukee. Her forthcoming collection, Alms for the Bored, is due out in late 2018 from Vegetarian Alcoholic Press. Stuff and more at spekarske.com