Issue 4

The Gravity Sanity Patrol

 · Poetry

The gravity sanity patrol
came to pick up the
sanity bag. In the sanity bag I put
what I did not need for sanity any more.
Everything behind my back.
The reality tent stake worked its way out,
wind thrashes at shelter
tent lifts off. I am lying face up
eyes open breathing wind.

If the tent stake was my tampon well
it’s gone.
Well I am finished bleeding.
Asked you to squeeze me sponge.
Water came out of me
sudsy liquid gem
now there were thumbprints on me.
I felt better. The breeze began to
populate my holes.

I am still in your hand
opening up, taking in 
the sweat of palm.

“The autonomy of art has its origins 
in the concealment of labor”

My heart beat very hard by itself.


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