It began, as these things often

do, with a slip, You added

the stewed tomatoes to the soup,

twisted your wrist, and the can

went in as well. You decided

not to fish it out. That stuff is hot,

and besides, you could use

the extra iron. From there,

the gates were open. Golf

balls in dandelion sauce,

the spider on your porch

with the erratic gait, adding

machines fresh from the vine.


You woke yesterday morning,

showered as usual. As you lathered

your hair, you felt the bony nubs

under the skin. You know you

should wash your feet, but hesitate.

While the Norwegian word for “recognition” is normally erkenning, this variant is used as the title of Vidar Dahl and Jøran Wærdahl’s 2011 film, which was my source.



Monoceros withers through spectacles,

surveys the landscape from his mucky

river atop the amphitheater stage.

Jaws ruminate, jaundiced eyes blink

some sort of ur-morse code. the crowd

roar curiosity, with perhaps a hint

of impatience; Mighty Joe Young he is not

and rough Nibiru could collide

with us at any moment.

                                      Even your platelets

refuse to coalesce. Soup has a greater

thickness than your marrow, and at times

you find the air difficult; you consider a move

to Denver, wonder if a rogue star

from the tail of a galaxy will vaporize

you faster when the distance

between you and the exosphere lessens.


Outside your apartment, the sky is dark,

darker perhaps than you’ve ever seen.

You wonder if that star in Sagittarius’

skirt is new, whether it has brightened.


It is never cold here

in this valley

this crescent.

Always warm, humid.

Prone to earthquakes.

Everything here

ground, bushes, fruits

is edible, tasty.

You can catch rain

on your tongue

the guide said

you can live that way


Robert Beveridge makes noise ( and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Cough Syrup, Penumbra, and Lowestoft Chronicle, among others.