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Summer is like supper in that they’re both

warm and remind me of family and vomiting

in fires, instead of deleting I just, start over

with charred leftovers intact like a toothpick

bridge hellbent to crack like a neck, as the sun rises

still and pale against erroneous clouds, today is not

the day for these clouds. I want so badly for fresh

clouds to be painted over these clouds.

To chisel the smells of salt and pepper, and

love into the air over the acidic flames

that ran too near to the center of the house.

I’ll brush emerald smoke and

never understand why diamonds have to be

so damn hard.



All of my wounds are salted.

stumbled in the dark

to get to a light

that was

never there to begin with,

limbs outstretched

like a swooping predator

or a creature

from that one weird thing,

a revolving idea

that incessantly stabs

the tongue until it’s fat

like infected bug bites,

body temperature floats

a little more orange

and red and confused and

alone and

unable to flap its wings,

a throat stuffed with

dirt and sticks

is as good a home

as any,

in a universe of mirrors.




If nothing matters why does everything matter down to the color of light pushed out of electrical component eyes haggard at their embedding in the concrete watching bodies becoming books and books becoming threads and threads becoming light and light becoming heat and heat becoming a fur coat and a fur coat becoming mushy fruit stuck inside.


Logan Roberts is an artist and writer in Florida. He tweets @hello_im_logan.

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