Cole Phelps Submits Confessional Poetry to a City’s Celebrity Gossip Magazine in the Hopes of Provoking a Police Response

I’m going to write a confessional poem and neither you/ nor all the cops in christendom can stop me.

-Donald Food, “I’m Not Into Bataille’s Rotting Teeth Anymore”

met a better best man at a concert in a gallery

than the best man I met rolling around on the floor

of the boiler room in a shirt that said I heart Hentai:

met a man better than east coast players playing

solitaire at my grandmama’s salon along

the cote du Swann. said oh la la

to all that and posed for an instagram

with my foot raised on a cable box

waving a magic wand.

I found this verse in ancient Pottermore,

I flaneured around for miles and miles

wringing out my lace cuffs in ancient Pottermore:

Je veux marcher toute la nuit

dans une ville ou le parfum est comme

une humide veste de crystal

with transparent perfume then

crashing at my ancentral ground

so I can have lucid dreams about

Plato’s Republic.

In a dream, sound advice from Jim Rash:

a beautiful thing is emerging in Delaware,

where benevolent genies invented Aubrey Plaza—

a beautiful thing is emerging from Christ Crown of Thorns,

where we all lost our virginities to girls

who kept their black sweater vests on—

your coupons are expiring beneath the Villa

Valetudo—your best men are getting way

into Kaballah—

a beautiful city is emerging from the soil

of your under-rated fatherland—

albedo rhymes with celebrity semen scraped

from refurbished Macbooks and cooked up

in man-shaped crucibles—

we’re gathering in secret

to bring new squeakquels bawling into IMAX theatres—

I dreamt I was a futuristic film executive,

pissing in a public bathroom where all the walls

were two-way mirrors. I kept washing my hands

for hours. All the other executives and me

slept in a large plastic pod with white noise.

We all wore black dresses and some wore purple bras.
Jim Rash said: don’t go to sleep angry.

I had black hair and very neat fingernails.

The next morning, I watched television by myself.

In the dreams of Pete Campbell, enter

Rory Gilmore with enormous breasts, and wings

for a coat. A clue could be a real name

unearthed from a blotter, or google image searching.

Move your hand to move my finger along a column of names

that could correspond to a significant event, or could be

entirely forgettable. Or Fist fight an out-of-work

mechanic in his kitchen.

A clue could be my hat knocked off my head in one thousand

sudden quicktime events. With the noise of the dispatch.

I too fell into disrepair when a tree caved in my roof in 1939.

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