Listen to the poem:
Nothing smart. Another drink. more smoke, cover my skin in the nights,
the nights, the nights. It comes with a light shift,
it comes with the absent fingers on my back. There’s the news.
Some turn of event. Itching beneath the broken bone.
Flick off the ash from your sweater. Collapse the tent,
tilt your body weight into the dirt, scratch your rib, part of an organ
that exploded when you were 10,000 years old.
This desk holds your weight well.
Someone takes a picture. Are you
yet? Where’s B.? Sure that’s where we can lay down.
These ashes are beautiful, don’t flick it all off yet,
let it smudge right here in your hand, we’ll call it a word.
It’s always the dirt in the glass, here’s a toothpick,
let’s see how the gum sticks. No, the
roof is perfect, it’s perfect.
Josh Anthony really tries, really, he tries. He is endlessly thankful for past publications, including Sleet Magazine, Dead Flowers: A Poetry Rag, Meat for Tea, The Screaming Sheep, Slipstream, and The Oklahoma Review, among others. Josh lives in the shadow of Mt. Fuji.