FANZINE

The Massacre of Bowling Green

We’re so hungry we eat the congealed cheese on the McDonald’s wrapper.
Then we eat the wrapper.

The shit monsters are encamped by the river.
They crawl out of the witch’s mouth.

They march towards the library.
They march towards translation,

towards us in the poetry section.
I’m too afraid to put my phone down

and read the classics to my daughter.
Meter sounds like death.

They won’t kill us? Ok.
They do.

Bezos & Me

Shiny head,
growing
inside my eyelid,
killing time
between commercials
of old-white-men
dancing for bags of Doritos.

(Bezos has a billion dollars;
I have a tumor.)

After my eye
squirts
blood,
Jeff stuffs me
inside a cardboard box,
delivering me, the next day,
to the Promised Land.

———————-

_{Lucas Burkett is the recipient of the 2019 Wolfson Poetry Award. He lives with his fiancée in Goshen, Indiana.}