Glass Poetry Press

Volume Five Issue One

Ryan Ragan

roadtrip I saw the country. American flags and maple trees, cans of Budweiser pulsating like ripe fruit and horses blue under stable eves. Some nights I dream my mouth is filled with cotton. mums the word I'd been inside my small closet with a plastic doll nailing spikes into the plastic head probably thinking about masturbating when I realized how a humid night would chew at me and I'd never forget it. vegetarian The noise of the mill drown out the noise of the rain. In such moments the air seems blond as a drunk's hair. That afternoon in a field I would dig up three coins. I failed to exhale and my lungs eventually grew taverns. byronic hero There's this girl I send love notes to who leaves doe prints in the meniscus of my drink. I ask her what are effigies. I can't believe my eyes in the morning draining like soapstone. I could be feverish. I could be staring this long at a light. atrophy I couldn't help but love the deceased. Such finality. A chalk frame as if children on the scene took the man as obstacle and tattooed the asphalt till God could shake the Heavens and wash it all away.