Shit Head
Head never throws-up on purpose because there’d be no one
to hate if I got skinny. To disgusting proportions Head’s nose
and ears grow hair, a line down my back. That’s what’s next:
paunch and not starving. These minutes. Meanwhile, Head
tests my shirt buttons. The unfortunate extent of reflecting
surfaces in the city Head wants to pawn off on me, as if I’d
been looking all along. Not like in the suburbs where cubed
buildings sat far back off the road so when I’d drive I’d be able
to see Head to scale.
Pee Stains in the Alley
The alley pisses too
much iron, changing
a spots color beneath
my chest hair, the scaly
on my foot clacking
from happy hour,
dragging its shoes
home. The alley follows
despite being told not to
and turns into my chest,
that one foot. Where
are my shoes? They had
soles barely holding
on; stitching visible
over strands of glue.
The cats bite at them
like laces. My foot turns
into a dumpster they get
behind and I stop dead
on my chest. It is greasy.
The cat’s mouths
are bloody with rodents.
Across the street, the lights
are still on in the library.
The Houses are Mine
These kids want
to beat me up because
of all my houses.
One of them
smells like fried
fish skins
in the garbage
too long, like one
of the kid’s hands
hadn’t been washed.
The one at the end
of the cul-de-sac
gets packages
delivered on its doorstep
from Guitar Center
when no one who lives
there knows how to play.
Always with its curtains
drawn, this house.
Next door, lava
rocks and spiky
bushes for lawn.
These kids cut the legs
off their jeans and use
them to gag me.
My eyes water
into houses of slow
movements. They tie
me with jump rope
to the trees they tie
their tire swings to
to smush gum
in my hair, pour honey
on my toes and poke
through me with sticks
as if I were a wheel
with spokes and that
sticks could stop me.
Down South
The nurse hears oversees
in my chest, vast
mounds of shells
my feelings abandoned
for more secure housing
when temperatures spiked.
Fathoms of sinus, dark
pressure with the power
to cave my head in
like giant, steel-toed boots.
Her stethoscope is a rock
she pulls to anchor my skin.
I’m flushed under the tap,
watching all the salt crabs
scurry on without their shells.
Shouldn’t the nurse preserve
me in salts or have a wet suit
to keep my lips from depths
that would bruise them?
This is down south slasher
territory, after all—some injury
must upend below sea level
shorelines to highlight all my plot
holes. Some entryway to cross.
Head Butt
Go on and crack an egg against another egg. One is still and
the one holding like through a wormhole continues holding. I
draw a supernova, surprised I don’t use all of each crayon.
Head comes back bloody, not stars per se but spores like
supernovas behind eyes that are either open or closed. One
sheet stays one color once Head tilts back so the blood goes
back. I taste blood in my throat, white as a bedsheet, and feel
around for a cavity with my tongue. In Sex Ed, I was given an
egg and asked to keep that egg safe for one week. I had an egg
and was asked to draw a face on it. Mine had supernovas for
eyes.
About the Author
Patrick Samuel lives in Chicago where he received an MFA from Columbia College. His most recent work has appeared or is forthcoming in Court Green and Prelude.
About the Author
Patrick Samuel lives in Chicago where he received an MFA from Columbia College. His most recent work has appeared or is forthcoming in Court Green and Prelude.