Chris Nealon

I know prose is a mighty instrument but I still feel that plein-air lyric need to capture horses moving

        Surplus of capital; economy tanks; you get called a faggot more

On red seats all around me children learn abstraction and heckle each other in affordable new media

        “This cold world we’re in is full of fresh champagne”

        Un snack sólo para mi

When I was a child I thought, In Homeric fashion I will speak to each of you in turn while laying you low

Now I stick to fragments    transmissible, perdurable   and the crossword beauty you can make from them

To all the young Apollos: I’m aiming for the intersection of your swagger and your ash

Not that I don’t get it: looking eagerly offends the lords of scarcity

        But check those dactyls, fabulous

        It’s just too hard to live as though there weren’t some other kind of surplus

To the masters of prose: Greetings!

I will die before I worship your god