I. The Sphere

On a porch is a 400lb. sphere.
The sphere dips
on the right side
where three teenagers took
a Louisville Slugger
and tried to crack it open.

II. The Clerical

A homeless man sits across the street
from the sphere. He sits
in a wicker chair, the fray
on the arms is noticeable
and sometimes his legs bleed
because stray pieces stick into him.

He is missing his left eye.
No one asks him what happened.
He was in the war.
No one knows which war,
because no one asks him.

III. Eversion

He watches the sphere every day at three.
Sometimes he watches it because he is bored
and other times because he is drunk,
but most times it is
it moves

It doesn’t roll though,
it moves as if it were on a conveyor belt.
The dent in the side
where the teenagers hit it,

moves too,

and sometimes the dent isn’t there.

IV. Virginal

The homeless man
sticks his finger
into the sphere.
He sees the hole
and put his index
and middle finger inside,
and he feels around,
searching for something familiar
and sharply he pulls it out
and there is nothing there
but he feels something cold
and it doesn’t move
but he moves back to his porch
and falls asleep.

V. The Dead Kingdom

When he wakes up
he is in a black forest
and he is reminded of something
he’d read once
and he isn’t sure what it was
but he is reminded.

The forest growshorrible splinters;
Fox gullys and astral trees, long oak stranded
pointed upwards vying for sunlight
these gorgeous birds, forcing down
dead prey, bloated, territorial.
and the grass is bleeting blue
and wet yet it is familiar.

Across the valley there is snow,
on a dead hill
and beyond that it is red
and that sphere sat in the distance
on a house in a deep holler,
past the splinters.
Near a rookery, where several animals
gather in ceremony.

VI. The Grand Marquis

As he walks forward
the ground
turns red
and his feet hurt
and he washes them
in water flowing from a cracked well
near the base of the hill,

a house sits above him now
and the sphere as well.

He sits down and he moves
like on a conveyor belt,
he moves and falls
into a depression in the ground.

He feels himself moving down
and somethingbecomes steeper
and the hill is further away
and the sphere is red
and the hole is gone.

VII. Jupiter

When he stops moving
in front of him
isa female nude, wearing her
hair like the armor of a Myrmidon.
Standing in front of an impossibly
large gate, blacked by the light
coming from behind.

She is holding a sphere like
this terrorfying lance
like a bloody spear.

He goes to touch her,

this Queen
Of Beasts,

elegant as her body spits tanged
whips of tension, watching her muscles
move underneath her skin
like fish beneath the surface
of a murky brook.

The sphere, she holds in her
left hand, and on her right
she points upwards to the
Star of

She is warm to the touch
& his hands knew only love for a brief,
passing second.

Her eyes are coral,
they meet and he knows
her deepness, her infinite mass,
pushing in and out unable to contain
whatever it is that rests
beneath her eyes.
Rock, cut oceanic gorgeous
Lips, long hair
like endless
Roads, open mouth. A sign, minor;


In an instance she; thewoman
takes his throat, gripping it with her right
hand, no longer pointing at the star
of jupiter.

and inside the homeless man’s throat

is another

He thinks;
Myrmidons.”:She has no tail he thinks.

VIII. The City of Dis

With his throat dripping
She let him go
past the gate she stoodbefore.

and the gate had words on it
that felt familiar. Words he’d seen
before or again, heard lost in some
static place.

Has a Devil
Put Aside
for You.”
Last edited by Something_Vague at Jul 13, 2013,
Long story short, don't self publish. The industry views it as garbage amateur nonsense, and if you want your work to be published, be good at writing.

"Self-publishing is for losers." said the Publishing Industry. So there will be no poetry book.

Also thanks
eh, I just self-publishes to have merch to sell at shows. self-published poetry books are like t-shirts you can read. without connections, once you have enough decent material, the only real way to break in is through open readings and contests. It sucks. Unlike this poem, because this poem is pretty darn good.
Good stuff sir.

"Success is as dangerous as failure. Hope is as hollow as fear." - from Tao Te Ching