Basement Provost
Express the Local
Where We Think Things Stand
Labor Day Docket
If You're Good, Take One
The Planet of Soil
Californication
Busy with the Local Authorities
Patowmack Daze
Missing a Phoenix
The Beautiful Game
The simulacrum has evolved higher definition, the latest
evasion to make it harder to look past the screen,
the speakers for the machine call it an advance
as they grab at the world with 3D printed claws and cogs,
trying to pluck everything that is still too natural
to be bought, sold, and spindled for the marketplace
We try to unplug and end up breathing in the dust
spun out by the massive wheels of this mediacology,
a claw nudges us to return, this time to front row seating,
where we hear our disease sampled and remixed
as it is played back to us and our sudden fans,
who claim premonitions of us from copypasted dreams
It is a wonder they want that kind of connection
in a world that has abolished the need for any dreaming,
they ought to know no one will be impressed
or intrigued since anything we see during sleep
has already appeared on the screen, or will be there soon,
no fantasy is private anymore in our ecumenical land
While we are lost under arcades,
our reflections preserved
in the tranquility of the bony tiles
a metallic assassin hangs quietly
in a stainless uniform,
we wonder how it knows our plans
it keeps on ruining them, issuing
cancellations and delays
in a breed of whisper that brags
twisting together in search of home,
we look for a line to follow
as the news keeps growing worse
Mentioned in a LinkedIn post, things are looking up for me,
the physical copy of myself is sure to arrive any day now,
being a good neighbor until then, it may seem like a given
but brunch vibes and watching football instead are tempting
A fashion for action is growing and red, the order of the future
is being processed, popular offline experiences to unlock
include meeting at Columbus Circle, for free books and totes,
before breaking to plan holiday travels with confidence
Democracy is sometimes messy, me: I can relate so hard,
as seen through all the special bonus content I keep releasing,
maybe this weekend will be better than skint, with good luck,
new deadlines are finally here to momentarily distract me
After years of hunting and haunting
then flipping and fencing
knockoff dramas from lovers and strangers,
my repossessed tales
were eventually going to unseal me
into the realm of living
under the firmament of an indictment
Now my luggage is taking
my so-called voice to court today, oyez vey,
no chance to flee
with just a summary of the judgment
it is going to be a long
rendering, a complete bibliography of crimes,
no luck reducing it to a listicle form
I want to skip ahead and write more original content,
but the central axis of development
(such that I've learned to call it in school)
keeps failing to materialize despite my efforts
I could focus on proper gathering, on the citations,
the reading lists, the bibliographies,
if the texts that pass through me are in order,
then I can fly though key passages when I hit them
Instead introduction follows introduction, my work
is just connective, a mess of tendons,
I worry it’s too late to write my real argument
and the main body of the text has been left for dead
Going ahead, falling
in and out of the fresh treads,
I reach out to grab
a part of this upturned earth
half wet, half dry,
the clod crumbles in my hand
without glittering
all the way back down
I scan and pan the brown cloud
and the pile below
for gold, forgetting
this treasure feeds the field
bent over, I can still see
the white hooves in the distance,
supporting horses content
to use the land for prowling
and when they stop,
they keep their heads raised
with eyes to the horizon,
looking more human than me
Of course, it is porn for writers,
but not because of the way it indulges
in the written or spoken word
the fantasy is different for us,
when we look at Hank Moody
and wish we had his life and troubles
we may desire the drugs, the booze,
the sexual encounters, pleasures
sans consequence, especially weight gain
and we may desire the basic human
dream of living through episodes
that wrap up neatly with clear endings
but there are things we want
which makes us writers like him,
the yearning for an adventurous life
that translates well to what we write,
and to live around people
who know when to come and leave us
and when they do come, they witness
how little we have been writing
and they are shocked, shocked to see
the effects of our writer’s block,
because in this deepest fantasy of ours
the world cares if we write or not
Busy with the Local Authorities
A marvelous experience,
this trap has its roots
a bureaucratic mix-up
for a solid year, they expelled us
a mild purgatorio
as we left the seafront flat
the new room seemed decent,
brief
incomprehensible articles
were posted on our doors
poetry was difficult, posing
at the typewriter
felt like maintaining a military stockade
ensuring responsible care to our case,
a worker
walked to us on eggshells
constant clanging, months
of no communication,
we were anxious
to discuss and read everything
five prisoners confined in their cells,
maybe it was different,
it was the only metaphor
I could keep writing
We stumble behind the rocks
and try not to fall as the water falls
over the edge of the continent
that ruptures stones right under our feet
When we are down by the foam
that pools like a cumulonimbus brew,
we review the circulation,
noticing the kayaks as they decline
They look like the neon peels
of giant flamboyant and buoyant fruits,
their expert owners steering
through the pull of elevation and the sea
Gravity plays different games
with us as we stay pinned to the land,
but it grants a space for curiosity
as we wait for the kayaks to resubmerge
Waking, society has drawn a dick on my face again,
I imagine two candy dispensers riding on my shoulders
in continuation of last night’s dream,
they are probably knockoffs, no matter, they gather in
close to my ears to act out familiar roles as angel and devil
One is stereotypically pale, another stereotypically red,
that is where the similarities end, this poor pagan
will not deal with wings and horns anymore,
they debate about whether I should go into the office today
and I feel the back of my neck itching unbearably
I turn into the pillow, the brain sinks and I wobble
in a horizontal fashion until rolling back,
my neck has a new pain, and I see the guests are at fault,
they have joined hands to cast a chain around me,
it seems this may not be a heaven versus hell thing after all
We share a consensus, better to sleep in and claim
a sickness, though not unto death, no dramatics this time,
the guests flee, and I stare at the hairy shadows on my chest
as a dim landscape fills up my side of the window,
the sun is struggling like an intern to pierce the indigo
Falling out of the heaven of light dreams,
The room is an eggshell easily broken
And impossible to clean, a cough my way out
Of bed and into the bathroom, missing
At first the true cause of my punctured rest
A storm of cheers bleeds through the plaster,
Stadiums are being matched by the screams
Of men supporting teams and pitches
On a continent that is several time zones away,
Every play seems to be a missed goal
Their circus swirls and circulates onward
Without regard to the transmission
Their alarm clock voices unleash in the night,
The walls that cannot block their voices out
Will not allow mine in to ask for silence
In the morning, their enthusiasm dies down
Just in time to resurrect and witness
Another workday, another chance to rise
Into the maw of rent, crumbs, and alienation,
I cough and go into the dwindling future
Ben Nardolilli is currently an MFA candidate at Long Island University. His work has appeared in Perigee Magazine, Door Is a Jar, Red Fez, Danse Macabre, The 22 Magazine, Quail Bell Magazine, Elimae, The Northampton Review, Slab, and The Minetta Review. Follow his publishing journey at mirrorsponge.blogspot.com.
