Six Poems

Daniel Beauregard



if every fight was a fight to the death

we’d all be in a world of winter

what I mean is that it all comes down to

survival right I mean if you’re surrounded

by empty suits you’d hardly ever have to

call for a stand-in. just stand on that line

and hold this up. a little higher, perfect.

send us yourself in four to six weeks

and if everything checks out

you can have your hat back




















had a dream about self-castration

you said from now on all my dreams

would be penniless, something about

my financial state. we can exchange

ideas all night long but tell me

did you order the marching band?

had a dream about self-castration

and my computer died had a dream

that someone else was having a dream

about sex.




















you can fit more clowns

in a hatchback than you

can in a limousine

the smell of fresh-cut grass

non coin-operated arcades

covered in steam from the streets

below the bridge one can

sense the smell of lilies

nobody parks cars when

it´s raining

it is Spring here and although

I don´t know all the plants

I appreciate their presence


















everybody got too fucked up tonight

except for me so how fucked up am I

form as aside: not an extended metaphor

form as a side note: an extended metaphor

when almost is a word longer than most

the trees the color of Monet and through

no small coincidence the hues he preferred

in his later years closely resemble

the colors commonly used for printed money

words take too long and stay too often

I used to know a man who wore

a sentence as a knee brace

the day he took it off all his teeth fell out

















to avoid the inevitable can

also be seen as the opposite of

an exercise in futility. boy

am I having a year and when I’m done

with this one, I believe I’ll have myself

another. the poem I’m currently writing

is more important than sleep but you

already knew that didn’t you?

depending on a single hand makes it tough

to push a boulder up a bluff

and calling one is even more difficult.

could the first person to figure out how

to swim also have been the first to drown

i wonder. sometimes we drop in a line

without fishing for a compliment















in a moment of separation the colon

literally tears apart becoming two periods

the phrases become autonomous

the Tao becomes two salamanders

one black, one white, waiting for

nothing but a belief in balance

seperately, Spy vs. Spy become

the two most boring private detectives

the world has seen in years

with us in our dipole moments

it’s a wonder how we get any work done

the skin is a suit you can take on

and off just as time is grounded

in a moment of separation

reaching completeness upon reconciliation





Daniel Beauregard lives in Buenos Aires, Argentina, where he runs a small press called OOMPH! that focuses on contemporary poetry in translation. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in H_NGM_N, Smoking Glue Gun, NAP, ILK, Poor Claudia, Everday Genius and elsewhere. His chapbook “Before You Were Born” is available from 421 Atlanta Press. A subsequent chapbook titled “HELLO MY MEAT” will be released this fall by Lame House Press.