Black dada in the morning, my hair is an essay of knots. No sleeping at the void deck.
Max Weber, grill me now and forever, I tried to get a new URL last night.
Some sort of her-othering thing. I tried to write a line off-target.
Goddamn dreams of jobs. A woman combing her hair. White torso.
Glass on the table, could Assad get me into the State Department?
What was in it hours ago? Madonna on the rocks.
I should’ve chosen a plainer cocktail and set my dreams to rest and geometry.
Not a woman combing her hair, squares arranged according to the laws of chance
My biggest fear now is that the Washington Post opinion page stops me.
Another Madonna on the rocks? I have to consider
my white torso, bleeding. Not bloated. No, bleeding again,
the cuts not choice, a collage with squares arranged according to the laws of chance.
Ben Nardolilli currently lives in New York City. His work has appeared in Perigee Magazine, Red Fez, Danse Macabre, The 22 Magazine, Quail Bell Magazine, Elimae, fwriction, THEMA, Pear Noir, The Minetta Review, and Yes Poetry. He blogs at mirrorsponge.blogspot.com and is looking to publish a novel.