Milo Christie

Dry grass

obviously

didn’t even

a reflection

a crust of disdain

a borosilicate

tone of voice

days turned

a new dark

it bloats

with rubato

skullfuckingly

and becomes

stupidity

between the wrinkles

in my hand

a tithe

which was always

or never failed to be

generous

Flake

Riddle,

I am going

for the once felt

the athleticism

in being alone and

sordid and

healthily so

I blow on you

its benefits

an ether

of homeric impulse

a fishhook

neck piece

Goodbye

Gold or metallic

things get ahead

I harvested

more bees

clams and formica

heads

most babies

most children

a sigh, all engulfed in

question, that I could be Moses.

take a right turn

take a pillowcase

a famed statuette of

shame

falling off the roof.

Take off your shirt and kind of act out

scissors and fingers and glue

every way a body might fall with

art-historical precedent.

Now you are

light. Your pockets, slowly

unthreaded, especially

are light.

Butcher

American personal history is replete

with it

Some form of tender

Teachings. Some

koan of cold lead by the creek

What

if this is a story of the

writer in dereliction

editing like his old man

drowning the children

of their dog in the lake

Trimming fat, a family

matter. Family or decision. Aging

by means of decision. To write a terse puritan

waybill of decision, whatever happened

to paintings

that were just

pretty.

Milo Christie (b. 2000 Berkeley, CA) lives and works in Chicago, IL. He co-directs Weatherproof, an artist-run space in Chicago's Albany Park neighborhood. He has shown work at Letters to Nora (Chicago, IL), UNDA.M. 93 (Chicago, IL), Popgun at Miguel Abreu (New York City, NY), Western Pole Road Trip (Various Places), Switch-Hook Projects (Chicago, IL), and Quarters Gallery (Los Angeles, CA). His poetry has been published in Warm Milk (Brooklyn, NY), Petrichor Mag (Online), and Horizon Mag (Bristol, UK).