DRECK

Z.H. GILL

JOAN OF ARC'S STUDIO APARTMENT

vodkathirst on an arbitrary tuesday; it is early-afternoon;
it is a day for thickening thoughts; i’m stuck in one until
the early-evening; must remember to get my cat from his
analyst; the roads are clear-eerily; raindrop-stench and my
gasoline; i am in romantic-love with power-steering; wind
picks up enough to fight with some bags; missed today’s
earthquake; candidates to bring back garbage-burning; my
apartment is perfect for hiding out in; the woman selling 
cabbage on the street moved to boca-raton, retirement; if
the wallpaper is too-much, i wouldn’t mind you scratching
it off; i have insurance for the walls but not for the floors.


KITCHEN POEM

old and new milk / store-brand cran raspberry / aooni ipa, three cans / five eggs / cottage cheese /
shredded parm / lap cheong / hot italian sausage / crema / new york strip / petite sirloin / three
packs of sharp cheddar slices / assorted pork cut value pack / raspberry bonne maman / one
sapporo / mae ploy panang paste / supermarket fried chicken / sierra nevada celebration ipa, two
cans / six cosmic crisps / four organic pink ladies / umpteen cherry tomatoes / four organic white
onions / hoisin sauce / organic maple syrup / dijon mustard / three crabs fish sauce / lime juice /
organic lemon juice / salted kerrygold, two packs / mae ploy sweet chili sauce / tomato paste /
garlic paste / anchovy paste / crab paste / low sodium soy sauce / dark soy sauce / lao gan ma /
huy fong chili garlic sauce / huy fong sambal oelek / jar of apple butter made by my mom, sent
to me via fed ex


POEM FOR CANNABIS

i sold my records to afford the move.
when i’m elected governor, there will be no
messaging beyond state lines: you are only
allowed by law to text with your neighbors
(and maybe your parents, to ensure they’re
alive). i afford to live alone by working
12 separate jobs. i want to become a pebble.


BLACK WIDOW

Car totters at the edge of
the bridge. I’m surprised
you can do a front-flip. A
fight. Spoor of spilled oil
on fire. Car drops into the
sea. It is morning: I have
a train to catch, I think.


WATCHING THROUGH A GLASS DARKLY WITH YOUR SIGNIFICANT OTHER

stacks of books fall unless you
bolt them in place. a wendigo
moved into the unit next door.
‘be not afraid,’ read the note
attached to the paper plate of
vittles he’d baked and left for me
upon my doormat—but i never
actually saw him. and then
he moved out.

Z.H. Gill lives in East Hollywood, CA. He edits Burial Magazine.