Luis Neer


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.