Taylor Napolsky :: 2 poems

Rihanna Rolling a Blunt on Her Bodyguard’s Head

Sitting secure on shoulders  Ripped sweater
brushing   stoma off as expurgated phrases
flick by twenty million normals  take note

how we  all see Again we   figured out
black people  are onto something Call it
every  time I’m,  topped off  the way I like it

Fox news versus fun-to-watch Fox shows six to nine
and, that girl looks so good she

looks like   something  out of the page like
she could be   Tom Buchanan’s  mistress.
Go on sing to me write  fan fiction  about

the   hundred million   dollar toy auctioned to a record
then offered to a museum for  the public’s benefit
where we   each have our own thoughts about it but
                                                the mic’s not mine

If Disney’s the new Medici                we
can’t all be Michelangelo. We can’t all read the book
everyone’s talking about or  be friends with who

we want to befriend   Ultron   Voltron   Coltrane
Coldplay   I love you supreme  babe I
swerved out of traffic   to get home to you

kismet brought me this far   laid me down secure
in my masculinity  Realizing what if  these people
we worship are   horrible  and just hide it  really well?

make me   a hologram Of a hologram, double
tap me on fight night and   write it in the lede
how most of us   aren’t yet ready how   good
we are at getting   good at what we “hate.”
 
 
 

On Heat & Energy, as Something Omnipresent Relating to the Human Body

Obsessively reading Kant with the phone off,
locked at home to capture the quiddity
of a work nature shaker mover
near smacked on the front side of the head
punched myself.

So people love cynicism these days
and are repelled by hope. It fits the mood
to gaze into the black fathomless abyss.
“Hope you don’t drop the soap.” Ass rape joke
normalized.

Quotidian male looking for rock solid advice
to go with a rock hard body. Feels like durance
but it’s not, and this living—being somewhat
free breathing air shit is great it’s really
for gods.

Everything’s changed but the process.
Electric idea sniping quietly; can you
scare this ghost out of my house?
The non-tick of her heartbeat
goes counterpoint to living.

I can’t exist here. I will get high & be
a guitar antihero till I pass out. The
children egged my car and the shells
they are part of me, my cracked fluid
skeleton.

On the Sabbath I won’t wrestle relationships
down to the sooty ground dark as anthracite.
Big hits sung knocked out of the park—
ella ella cerebellum, we rats cheep to make
Forbes.

List eight pieces of advice from famous Stanford
commencement speeches and put them in line, so I
can ignore them all. The universe does nothing for me;
it’s random, chaotic. Speak to it slow, drop whispers
into its void.


additional work by Taylor Napolsky can be found in the print version of issue 5.