Phantom Kangaroo

Mike Andrelczyk
Michael O'Brien
first orchid he tells me the earth is flat
the morning pulses into a panda
binary perfume
believing in ghosts
pacman

aerosol mist dissolving the meaning of turquoise

shark tooth not a cloud in the sky

believing in scorpions a gallon of petrol

wind glitch /-
hovering above the wheat
the clown face emoji

in the small field a man dreams about a small field

a yellow triangle shipwrecks
the outlands

phantom kangaroo i farm a whirlpool

OJ and the Sand Shark

OJ pushed some cold squid meat through a hook and cast his line into the desert sand. It fell with a dusty thump beside a retro Phoenix Suns second jersey and startled a napping Charlie Mingus. He sat in his lawn chair. Waiting. OJ struck a match and put it to the map of old Lithuania and watched it burn. He put the buring map to the end of his cigar and drew a deep inhalation. Highways turned to smoke. He looked at the blood-toothed mountains. He tried counting them but his attention shifted to a letter the mountain range seemed to be hinting at.

the letter s
of innocence
lost...

He twitched the rod. The sky was painted with the pastels of late afternoon and a guilty early evening that would not fit on his hand. A melodious rattlesnake slithered through his mind. Then came skeletons dancing a tango and speaking dead languages. He mumbled something he didn't understand.

He felt a tug on his line and began reeling in. A thrashing shape-shifting thing emerged from the sand. OJ strained and brought the shark in.

He apologized and gently removed the hook as the shark waited quite politely. The shark was wearing an immaculate conception. In the inside pocket he had a toy white bronco. The shark sat on the empty sister chair. OJ poured the arizona iced tea. They discussed the origin of the word lascivious. They agreed it was time to play the game.

OJ got into the miniature bronco and roared into the horizon. The sand shark grinned and finished its tea and began to give chase — the taste of human blood lusting through its leathery glove of a body.

xray of judge ito's brain an anchor abandoned in a desert

Later that night, after the shark devoured OJ, the two met again in a dive bar for a glass of gin. They exchanged pleasantries and set a time to play again tomorrow.

low sun telling the child not to eat stones

night sinking into mud sinking into night

worrying about bombs a lithium whale
gathering sparks
from the woods
to rebuild a wolf moon

moon decay —
chewing a cricket leg
the young cat

w/ hands of bees the wolfman

the oil painting descends the fire escape
clearing out his desk
the crumbling
of last year's gingko

some of the time
the heavy weight
of yellow

clawflower
weaving shadows
of mountains

How I Remember the Story of Pinocchio

A little old man had a dream about a frog eating clams and linguini. Later he was standing in the wind. He had had a little wine. When he was young he did something bad. He picked a butterfly from an aspen tree. He twisted his white mustache. He grew it after his wife died. His father was a soldier in the mafia. The old man's heart was a miniature ferris wheel. The sun's noon nose grew and the old man played with the sun light in his knife blade. He could make a rocking horse. He could bake his bread. He could tie a knot. He could never make a fire with two fish. But he could make a fish from a fire. He would release the fire fish into the river. He was alone. He was a little old man that was a little sad and the sun told him another lie.

The river came by on Tuesdays. Fashionably late. The welfare didn't cash checks before early afternoon. Fish you say. Lovers ride free the old man replied. The sound of children queing for his heart. I brought the ladder. The glue? Yes. The guns? Must we do this everytime? A child squats down and counts the clover.

family blade
the wrestler learns
a headlock

new notebook at some point i'll become a sandwich
under glass
in the library basement
a raven-haired moth
mountain lion
a mountain
moving inside the dark
beside the potato a potato
white paint can steaming styrofoam cup of coffee white walls of white sun
like a draft in a carp
changing wind
the young man
cracks an egg
new text
glowing light blue
a doomed brain
dinosaur bones i vaccinate my dream
lightning bolt pulling apart a cotton ball
Mike Andrelczyk lives with his wife in Pennsylvania. He is the author of the chapbook “The Iguana Green City & other poems” (Ghost City Press, 2018) and “Dissolving” (Alien Buddgs Press, 2019). @MikeAndrelczyk
Michael O'Brien is the author of, most recently, Silent Age (Alien Buddha Press). His writing has been published widely in print and on the internet, and translated into other languages. An extensive list of these publications can be found here. He is also the curator of Weird Laburnum. You can follow him on twitter @michaelobrien22