by Tyler Myers
Hey, high-ranking god unjustly demoted at the recentmost change of cards. You
Who beat STARS from Arabic jacket-iron, take COMMAND of my battering radius.
For these unmanned flights to Mars will never turn up the least dot of water. For
How can anyone turn up the water without first laying hands on the spigot?
The bigotry of these ineducable children is like the magnetosphere of the sun.
GASEOUS GIANTS patrol the darkness under sway of that mysterious force.
The PRIME NUMBERS, too, are subject to gravity; they, too, have a galactic center. That
Pulsing zero, indivisible—with nullity and emptiness for all!
The DOLL I had as a child was nothing if not anatomically correct. When I looked in its
Pants, the feeling I had was indescribable revulsion.
Barbie, don’t trust that Ken. He may be good with shapes and colors,
But insofar as you let him drive the car—that’s how far you drive up the tree.
In due time we shall see for ourselves who is prophet and who is fool.
We’ll see who has to COOK THE BOOKS to show a return on owner’s equity.
So, send me up the wrong side of Moth’s-Eyebrow Mountain; set me down in a sinking
Where I’ll need all this equipment I don’t even know how to use to make it up the first
And now MADRID is wearing a spacesuit. He forged it in this poem’s first couplet. And now
He is splashing around in shattered glass with a family of sexy robots.
ANTHONY MADRID lives in Chicago. His poems have recently appeared or are forthcoming in AGNI Online, Boston Review, Fence, Gulf Coast, Iowa Review, Lana Turner, LIT, Poetry, Washington Square, and WEB CONJUNCTIONS. His first book, called I AM YOUR SLAVE NOW DO WHAT I SAY, was published by Canarium Books, spring 2012.