by Oliver Rice

Suppose the doctor is running late.
Suppose, meanwhile, extrospective,
I cross the street, stroll into the park,
wishing to be in my sweats,
thinking all manner of squirrels,
of blackbirds and beetles,
have had their ecosystems here forever,
how in the human condition
some are apt to gain advantage
and some of those to abuse it.

Suppose my attention swings back to a man
seated there in a slouch hat,
scarf drawn about his chin.
Suppose I casually take the next bench,
thinking how improbably he could be Saul Bellow,

facing the skyline, just removed,

emitting
a syndrome,

ideograms,
unaccountable to the joggers, bikers, skaters,
emitting pictures
of old Chicago,
of American Paris,
of the Diaspora,
amorous persecutions,
calamities that start up the soul,

devious in his carpenter’s pants,
emitting guises
as the renegade humanist,
as the casualty of the human venture,

as the multiple, the justified, the tragicomic man,
the guerrilla against himself,
the victim, hysteric, charismatic, scourge,
the deluded narrator,
the gothic autobiographer
with a sensibility for almost anything,

overtaken by late modernity,
emitting voices,
rhapsodic, bumptious, confessional,
outraged by the philistines, the shrewd barbarians,
the banalities, the absurdities,
saying man’s natural predator is man,
saying the soul wants what it wants,
all postures are mocked by their opposites,
how the blood rushes to the psyche!

But, oho.
Suppose I receive intimations
that he senses my intrusions.
Suppose I fold my paper,
casually rise and stroll on,
thinking how improbably he could be Saul Bellow,

emitting a syndrome,
pictures of old Chicago,
guises,
voices,
voices.

by Cory McClellan

I can’t talk to you anymore,
annealing tunes of hypomania has made me thirsty.

Home remedies for cracked vermilion:
praying in the shower,
writing on wet paper,
mouthing kaleidoscope patterns.

I kissed you once when you were sleeping;
candy canes on fire,
stealing homes from honeybees.

This infatuation is just as much your fault as it is mine.
I thought you could change my lips into flowers.

by Cory McClellan

It begins like a stutter in a nursery rhyme.
Eye volumes fluctuate
with capillaries colliding queries of lost keys against o r “.

Facial is the most timid of the twelve cranial nerves.
There is a residue surrounding the cerebrum,
a membrane of tape recorders catching lost voices with butterfly nets.
The electromagnetic waves in nicknames
can cause the lip muscles to spasm with hallucinations of 5:00 am rendezvous.

The tongue is a prisoner of its own paranoia.
To silence hiccups practice counting to ten in a different language;
nerves become confused by unfamiliar phonemes.

by Cory McClellan

Turn off the lights.
Undress with caution.
You’re wearing the electric touch of abandoned hair dryers.

Drag your feet across the carpet floor.

Hands itch with wanderlust electrons searching for a release.

Follow the sound of my voice.
Strike your fingers like matchsticks against the wall.
Feet around in the dark until you fall into bed with me.

Energy cannot be created or destroyed.
Put your ear against my chest.
I’m wearing the sharp burn of banging stones.