This journal is called Dead Boyfriend and the cover
is a photoshop of two Saint Sebastians humping.
This contemporary journal for witches.
Free scapular with a horse on it.
MLA format is fine.
This journal is called BILLY THE KID I LOVE YOU
and it will shoot you and you will sigh and your smoke.
Try taking off your cardinal cap if you’re trying to translate
our cool positive poems into Vulgate Latin.
‘Hey! Fuck a poem!’ Please pay no attention to our in-house owl.
This journal is called Muscle Milk and it fucks you up,
I’m dragging my crummy body along the carpet to escape
my heavy journal.
A journal of contemporary ballistics with these muscles?
This ripped body and chiseled core? I for one believe it.
Powerful faith like a P90X energy bar
making me throw up in the kitchen via unstoppable strength.
This journal called Planet Rock is edited solely by white people
with transition lenses and bowl-cuts.
We are powerful. We are five years old. Our fingernails glimmer
in American water. We believe in the spiritual dynamism of star-fish.
Have beaten Plok and touched the breast of Mary Pickford.
Like David W. Pritchard, our bodies has been colonized by One Direction.
My scapular for a spectacle—my lyric mode for
that one thing
I heard from a reliable floor that Hart Crane has a poem called ‘X-Box 360’
I saw it—I saw it— I saw it in the section called ‘More Late Poems’—
hovering and droning
but from the corner of my eye