dreams are like
baths in black ichor
personal battles
against you and me
and your dad in a leather
jacket who won’t
pay the bar bill
a gazelle in a meadow
you’re banned from
the little pumps at gas stations
that squirt ketchup mustard
and relish
except now
it’s a miniature cowboy
shooting a revolver
right there man right
at the target inside
your noodle
***
The barn owl mates for life. Males bring dead rodents to their partner. Feed them at home, in their nest. They eat when they’re hungry. And mate when they’re horny. Flirt over the carcasses of mice and lizards and voles. Courting begins with a flight/dance by the male and then both owls fly together and screech, fucking screech together into the empty sky. Then they’re tied. A pair. Tied by blood and empty noise. And so barn owls are never lonely until they are. Until one of them dies. And the other just exists, plainly, in the same fashion as a commercial or a muted wash cycle or a classroom during winter break. Flying alone into the sky. Screeching until their throat catches fire. And that call is never returned, not anymore. But they’ve got it figured out, I think, the simplicity of love. Of rotting bodies. Sacrifice. The empty tomorrow.
***
Go and fill your days with
something insignificant
like pointing a finger
gun at the moon
and imagining it
explode
or pretending every night
that one day you’ll wake up
and everything will be Okay again
***
Cavin Bryce Gonzalez runs Back Patio Press but, honestly, that don’t even matter because, look, listen bro, that dude tattooed his dick to look like a scorpion or something — CAVIN HAS A FUCKING SCORPION DICK!! Yo, you ever seen a scorpion dick? Nah, bruh, you’d be dead. Also, he failed second grade for ruling so goddamn hard that kids shit their grilled cheeses on the bus. He’s on twitter.
***
image: M. M. Kaufman
Rejection Letters 