Cody Todd is the author of the chapbook, To Frankenstein, My Father (2007,
Proem Press). His poems have appeared in Hunger Mountain, the Konundrum
Engine Literary Review
, Bat City Review, Salt Hill and are forthcoming in the
Columbia Review and the Georgetown Review. He received an MFA from
Western Michigan University and is currently a Virginia Middleton Fellow in
the PhD program in English-Literature/Creative Writing at the University of
Southern California. He is the Managing Editor and co-creator of The
Offending Adam

God like a sweater

Night dark as rain-beaten rum. Somebody had stole
his shoes in County. No matter. Life was enough and
life, blessed to hear the ambulance siren undulate far
away, the police sirens surely coming forth. The gulf
grew arms. A chill took his sight from him. How else
could one describe it? God was there, in the upper
corner, above all the ugly. Rain grew legs and crawled
inside to form one body with the wind, to touch the
sad and miserable faces.

Pink Floyd's Money on a Hammock by the Water


Lands on heads. Lands on tails. Circles the earth
like a tethered moon. In the pocket of the dirtiest

man alive, a hairless wolf that kills you for copper
behind your walls and silver in your kitchen drawer.


Nothing in the palm of the saint but a stone with more dirt.

Activates the robotic Afghani that reads your fortune
and ignites blue lightning in a video game ball.


Drowns to death in a Paris fountain,
while nibbled by a brook-trout in Stockholm.


The shape of the planet, and decidedly so.


Raining on a 1982 Las Vegas casino floor,
when Larry Holmes TKO'd Gerry Cloony

at Caesar's Palace. Wipe away the Have Nots.
On a collective level. Boring me to death.


In fact, it is of the first machines.


Making love to the palms in sweaty fashion.


George Washington and Abe Lincoln
not getting to finish cameos in Act 5, Scene 2.


When I spin it with my thumb and forefinger,
it dances like the elderly in the face of death.

Clean Bitch

Coyote. The howl
of your mother calling out

hunger. Binoculars
above your stomach. I used them. I never

called a rabid dog, 'Dirty Bitch'
unless she deserved it. A man

ice-fishes in the shack above
the pond. He brings you your last day

in a box left on the doormat. He
falls beneath the ice

like a miscarriage or a shit beneath you.
He is an amber-eyed, brainy one, that Death.

Coyote. I tell you this
because your fur is matted

with my blood. You vanish
like a hand gesture down the freeway.

You are a stone, but no law, as far as I know,
stands against praising them.

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