Sam Pekarske

the last diatribe doesn’t sweat the small stuff


we’re all

going to




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


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


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



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