Issue 4: Subjectivity vs. Objectivity
A Publication of the USF MFA in Writing Program


Nathaniel G. Moore

His toga soiled in unconfirmed stains roam free in
mischievous tumbles. I add bleach to the cycle.

I remember the coffin, how it glided despite the stone-
seeded road and describing death to make believe reporters
who did skateboard tricks with their clipboards.

The spastic streetlights sponging up our pimples. Moths
along our gums drunk off the humid faith-eaten air.

God, what were you thinking?

Sleep is entertainment for those whose minds have
government. Curfew the dead, Catullus and I will sew the
earth with laceration, howling and pride.

Parts of Roman Culture pasted thoroughly over my
aggravated lampshade.

I reach for the switch, poorly painted and full of texture; I
hear the moaning alleys: the crumbling market, the
colourful conquering.

Hooded shadows in alleys consulting the tones of a pale

Moon-tipped ink runs across the barracks into the showers
rusted locks of museum hair are combed nightly by guards.
All is tenderly watched through faceless security cameras.

Thumbs in the gutter tumbling by the seamstress shop.
I have on a light blue flannel pair of antique pajamas who
during the day dry naked in the sunlight. The lampshade is
full of his fingerprints, I clean it often.

The storm outside begins. Shadows lean. He walks in the
room. The ancient earth holds his family, he holds me away
from his body like a knife blade humming.

He wore a pair of sandals on the ferry. In my backyard I
study the dust on his face. Mixed in with the garden salad
harvest. His fingers brush the leaves of lettuce. Watches
them like hems.

At night my damp voice stains his phone. He washes the
receiver of stubble before putting it down.

The naked heart showered, chunks of water break off the
stream. From the tap, come down and root me out. Makes
me invisible before him.

Sand in my stretched eye, a souvenir of Catullus, torso and
all. Embroiled, plunged, the wet heckler of fleshy union
with a two-legged smile.

The patent is somewhere on a bookshelf. Catullus walks
out in bilingual banters from the bathroom. Flesh tombs in
a trunk. Tucked into midnight drawers. His fingers FULL
dent the lampshade.

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