Coyote
frightening now
is the feeling of standing on a threshold
when nothing within view
remotely resembles an edge
in asphodel there aren’t any staircases
just flowers & footprints || foresight & blindness
converging on a point || but it’s just a hallway
they’re just tubes
they’re just rumors that scream as they pass in whispers
now is the time of the coyote
the fangs are all around & i have learned
to pick them out || to keep
my hands hidden
i could be walking on glass
nothing in sight resembles an edge
but i know there are edges || little fragments
keep tearing away
one foot in front of the other || there
are no pedestals here
The Stag
i tried to explain to jordan that i had seen a god die
that i had caught a glimpse of the furious calm
we were watching a horror movie in zach’s garage & making fun of it
to ward off any chance of terror
i tried to push it into the back of my head
i watched him lick the flavored tip of his cigarillo
when the movie ended we got into his car to drive to the gas station
i told him i’m afraid that everything is ruined
he said i’m sorry you’re so depressed
several nights prior, calli’s car had been hit by a deer in peosta iowa
in west virginia, hunting season was about to begin &
the deer were beginning to creep into the riverside towns
at the gas station we saw one by the dumpster
a redneck blared the horn of a chevrolet silverado &
the deer dove back into shadow
i told jordan there’s something mythic about the way
they are with the scenery
jordan said there’s no reason to be weird about it
the edge of the soil creeping closer to the crumbling point
i thought of the sound i had imagined to be real to
account for the sensation i perceived
whenever i stopped breathing in the hallway
we returned to the garage & he lifted the cigarillo from the ashtray & it
was a hell of a night || there
was hell in the night
Notion From Staircase
For Kenzi
every morning || the sun is new
every object returns into form
to suit some image of the future world
doors are secret || everything is strange
lacking memory || i can only stumble
like animal soup
a staircase that only goes down
collapsing || into sleep || every night
to dream radiation
like strings || whispered through matter
redefining days || only slightly
ink || as punctuation
zero (0) || as an open mouth
this body as a new metropolis
Luis Neer is a 17 year old poet from West Virginia. He is the author of This is a Room Where You Wait for New Language (Ghost City Press, October 2015) & his recent work can be found in be about it, alien mouth, fog machine and elsewhere. find him on twitter @luisneer.