Behind the house, a goliath birdeater tarantula scurries through the junkyard looking for jet engine parts. We are shackled to the bedframe, taking our medicine, watching the sun holy out of the horizon. In the hallway is another hallway and along the walls are portraits of hallways and along the walls are portraits of stars, celebrity not celestial. It’s the largest spider in the world, she says. I begin to gnaw on my leg. My skin peels off like paper but I have a letter to write so it’s okay. Hand me a pencil. Dear future atomic deconstruction of me-self: I see the haunted core of the crane fly. He moves the photographs and dreams about dancing. His wings are novels. I am an employee here. I am an employee. I am employed.
Talisman of Vapor
Someone once asked me what exactly do you think you’re doing with your poetry and I said fixing language. It’s not supposed to be about things. It’s not supposed to be mean. It’s song and incantation. You want proof? Read this out loud and watch what happens. If you intone correctly, it’ll snow outside and you’ll sneeze a bunch. All I desire is control over weather and allergens. The dirt road leading to our porch becomes an agora of disaster. The grocery store parking lot becomes an iceberg. See his jacket? See his jacket vaporize? See my talisman? See my talisman fact-check?
BRYAN EDENFIELD was born in Arizona but has lived in Seattle since 2007. He was the founder and director of the small press and literary arts organization, Babel/Salvage. He hosted and curated the Glossophonic Showcase and the Ogopogo Performance Series. His writing has most recently been published in Sporklet, Mantra Review, Underwood Press, Meekling Review, TL;DR, and Plinth. He was a recipient of the Jack Straw Writers Fellowship for 2018 and is currently the host and producer of the Hollow Earth Radio program, Glossophonics.