Author: Logan Ellis

Logan Ellis is a student at the University of Arkansas at Little Rock, working on his BFA while working as co-poetry editor on his campus's literary magazine. His work has been published on Winning Writers, The Brasilia Review, and Eleven Eleven. Follow him on Tumblr

whatever circumstances

in a city of book shelves,
we flip guesses into the sun.
what sense does that make?

overall, in the end, conclusively

you open your two halves and let me into
our time machine with training wheels,
our garage collective: smoke cumulus
in the vent and dusty instruments like lean-tos.

firstly secondly finally

      there is no
            greater transition,
steel film over a bubble, the refraction
of eyes parsed in halves and,
in those halves, even smaller
pieces, the sight and smell of applause,
kaleidoscopic ash blinking in time
with hands hands hands clapping
in a city of new kindling, legs
snapped forth and hungry

to open,
            in the beginning

whatever expectations

don’t be surprised when I start; don’t be surprised when my hands forage homunculi in my pockets, when I sever your lifelines and sleep with them under my pillow; don’t be surprised when I wake up into a changeling at the foot of the bed; don’t be surprised when business picks up on the other side of my face, when I monopolize on disease in this body’s veins; don’t be surprised when I begin double-parking into each newborn minute; don’t be surprised when I transfer the hold of your eyes for a cup of black coffee; don’t be surprised when I sharpen my neck with every scent of the forest, when the pheromones catch up with me; don’t be surprised when you download a virus with each of my apologies; don’t be surprised when I start slowly and gently forgetting every revolution I know, when I begin falling off my own skin, when I eschew and eschew until my gums hurt when we find ourselves sitting on every lightning-shot stump K-I-S-S-I-N-G when I say thank you, but really mean, I have a confession in one of my fists, now pick one.

whatever promises

I figure

I will
stop following bricks
laid into the air.

I will stop lowering your glass
arms from me and lighting
my clocks
with blue.

I will not question the future,
where it is or how it’s like
a vacant hotel room that
you move into with all your
belongings, checking out
with half, moving to
the next room over, halving
again, a splintering away—
            next room

I will stop reading
my horoscopes from the
bottom of every bird
cage, all those
shit-streaked egos.

I will stop skipping stones
across a lake that
reflects the sky, telling myself
they sink into heaven,
promising myself
there’s always a medium somewhere.

I will refuse everything, turn
and pull you
down from those Children
signs where I left you behind,
make holy water
with our wrists.