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jd scott




O to be in the moon chamber,
to drink the serviceberry goo,
and the tiny pies on an equal—
sized plate of tininess. To be
surrounded with props. Black
mirrors into other faces. Vials/
powders/wind chimes that only
chime at the end of the world.
A bottle of cologne purchased
at the apocalypse dollar store.
To be inside a djinni bottle
or to retreat inside the turtle
shell, to go inside a magical
dimension inside your body
when the bomb has dropped,
when some divinity comes raging.
It is a fantasy of all people to stop
time and hide until the smoke
has cleared...but, look: gases
and vapors of smoldering corpses—
look how the carbon particles
are casting rainbows. Incandescent
organic matter pearling through air.
Who knew such violence could be
aesthetically plush? Pleasing. How
kawaii the devastation of the self is
and that of the soft, marbled earth.





Am I supposed to levitate myself                               off good deeds

&dismount this pale horse                                          I am the sickly rider

who wants nothing more                    than                 to wear an exomis

&bodyslam through windows                                     inside a shopping mall

&drink carrot juice                               while               I drag my weeping body

over the white and black tiles            &sit                  at the edge of a fountain

phlebotomizing into the chlorine-flow                    sad pennies                my metal

touching always touching                   triangular glass                     me the chandelier

gushing&oozing                                   like a butter churn full of rubies      I

hemorrhage&                                       banshee-­burst                    through toy-

stores                                                    Steeplechasing                    discount racks&

sale shoes&                                          Halloween handprints         on the giveaway

Lexus                                                     yes—the prize!                     veins

hanging out my legs                            getting caught                      in escalators

&people stop                                        gape                                     declare

"Call 911" but this is my ponyfun so I tromp&touch all the jewelry cases&

                                                               disappear into the shadows

of the parking garage                          before anyone can catch me&

                                                               try to make sense                of my bloodgallop




JD Scott is a poet currently living in Tuscaloosa, AL. His publications include Night Errands (Winner of the Peter Meinke Prize for Poetry—YellowJacket Press, 2012) and FUNERALS & THRONES (Birds of Lace, 2013).