Roberto Bolaño falls in love with a red sandal he finds in the corner of a sunset. He places the sandal on a bed of seaweed. Its red is more so against the seaweed’s green.

Behind the sandal Roberto Bolaño hangs the head of a man. His face is made of fruit and an occasional vegetable. Roberto Bolaño imagines the head with legs made of celery and tomato stalks.

With such legs Archimboldo may wear the red sandal and run toward a given date in the future.
It is not strange; we are all running with him.

Roberto Bolaño will not live to see the year his sandal makes for but he is glad to imagine it running through fields of seaweed. Its red is more so.

Alan Peat (after Reka’s piece that appeared yesterday)

If love stories are rivers

Roberto Bolaño falls in love with a red sandal he finds in the corner of his sunset.
John Ashbery falls in love with his neighbor’s zebra striped necktie.
Dennis Cooper falls in love with a tree’s shadow cast during an eclipse.
Franz Kafka falls in love with a woollen scarf he finds in his late mother’s closet.
Nicanor Parra falls in love with a red rose embroidered on a stranger’s hat.
Attila József falls in love with loaf of white bread he ate within a dream.
Federico Garcia Lorca falls in love with a pick-up truck he once saw or imagined on a postcard.

Reka Nyitrai

Reverse Photosynthesis

There are trees that grow only in dark patches
of the earth so they are easy to miss
if you aren’t paying attention

I filtered their dark shadow
you professed not to care
and we were alone leaning on our shadow trees

a stream in the shade passed through
watered the night drinker
returned the scaly bark to its
lonely state scared of the sun

scared of photosynthesis
the breeze in the dark space
enlivened the shadow tree
four ministers
baptized the tree at each corner

sprinkled water at its base and you cooed
among its branches
so too the shadow of the earth
fed your ecliptic want

Wallace Barker

The Real World

Blowout along the way to work
I stop on the shoulder to change the tire
cars speeding by so fast
I felt hot gusts with
the violence of their passing.

And this violent street
seemed so serene
only moments earlier as I
navigated its easy turns
in a climate-controlled environment
listening to mid-century
French crooners on my iPhone.

Now I see the edges of the road
are littered with tire scraps and shards
of shattered auto glass
a raccoon corpse bloats in the sun.

I am changing my tire quickly
harassed by speeding sideview mirrors
which seem almost to clip my shoulder
carelessly close, I curse unconcerned drivers
such an impact would surely leave me crippled.

And as I finish mounting the tire
eager to return to my former idyll
I spot a buzzard at the tree line
patiently waiting for me to die
or else leave it to the raccoon carcass.

Wallace Barker

Blue Rain Hat

what can we do but string moths together?

in your Armageddon-slippers you say rain’s coming


in the new world bluebottles instead of hope

“you’re nothing like the virus” she said making popcorn


the homeless psychotic acts like a wardrobe

we look under the sofa for the word pitcher


right foot socks in one drawer, left foot socks in another

we buy Mickey Mouse band-aids to heal the lake


while watching Montalbano an olive falls through my I

for now we let the poplars stay outside


in my blue rain hat I fight off boredom with a stick insect

“when you’re through being a swallow you can make coffee”


before hoovering pick up the .s and ,s from the carpet

“don’t talk to the moon, don’t get it started!”


you’re not alone you have the black dog

eggs boiling and you consider adopting a cardboard box


we agree the ashtray has a hidden agenda

next to the remote there’s a remote and another remote


“Microphine”, you say like I don’t know what it means

in a yellow eternity we begin questioning needles as a concept


inflatable clouds take up half the room

the Earth is flat enough to be on TV

Johannes S. H. Bjerg

four from JD

the dallas salad of the hand warming

leeks and pie + a club card
the ace of the jungle is the spy

the wheat of the sprung national toe

now a saturned face
‎‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎to use a lariat


again with that strumming foot to decide
the bright wok of the forest is chosen


why so burger the foam, lex?
a corner of that thumb

J. D. Nelson