Pus, what is pus, it is clover, it is noodled red crayon.
The moon in that is that water is absent. The volcanoes have arrived. The grass is empty. Yet it isn’t, it it is is all all, and jingered smoke, and kem trails, surely they belong to someone, but forgot to change their breath, and a kolossos knocked on the door, and maps have moved to skin. Remember glinting is tool clarification.
Yet the palm tree won’t go out smoothly. There was once a war hung about the frame. Newspaper clippings on how to do. The sheets have pudding, the stars have knives. And the face is grey sunshine. And the face is hot moonlight. The dots have driven insane. Yet canvas. For a little while. Exorcise brown technique, soothing tectonics, scheduling the next earthquake. It shows up late, early, on-time, unwanted, planned, unexpected, hoped, feared, latent. It likes to borrow oiled sugar from time to time.
T.m. Lawson is a writer and poet living in Southern California. They have been published in Los Angeles Review, Entropy Magazine, Poets.org, White Stag, The Other Journal, NILVX, and Women’s Studies Quarterly. They are a 2015 Academy of American Poets prize winner, and a 2016 Thompson Prize winner. Formerly the Poetry Editor for Angel City Review, they are now an M.F.A. student at UCSD’s Creative Writing program.
Painting, Emulation, by Jenn Zed. Used by permission.
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