Corey Spencer is a student of NYU's Literature and Creative Writing program.
Hailing originally from South Carolina he currently lives in Brooklyn, NY (USA)
with his girlfriend and his pitbull Hank. His work is forthcoming in Eunoia Review.
It Could Be Alright
to imagine I am not
the symbolic hand
that guides my self through
the gridlock of flesh-life.
After all, yesterday was
my 27th birthday and
I still cannot understand
the math behind fractals.
Yet I no longer think this makes the world
an algorithm of vultures
Circles inside circles inside circles...
It could be alright
because when I stand
between two mirrors
I see my self explode
into perpetual Corey Spencers.
Half of them turn their backs,
the others gaze back.
Sometimes, when I think of the perfect words
to sculpt a thought: bullet, skull, veteran, my mind
shatters, and there is no intellect left
to discern shadows. "Grandpa,"
was my first word and I had no idea
what it meant, but said it anyway. This is how
some get through life, by learning new things to say,
like "organization," and "paronomasia"
with only the vague sensation
of defeating some phantom. Now,
when I think of "Grandpa"
there is nothing but the lingering smoke
of things snubbed out
behind closed trailer doors,
wordless, alone, with one report.
A One-Night-Stand's Memory of Death Reminds Me of My Brother
When she told me about the cellophane,
I remembered the afternoon
he drowned ants with his pee,
swung a racquet at fireflies.
When we were young and hopeful,
people we loved had died,
so this was no big deal.
But now he wears a three piece suit,
is divorced, owns cats
and a big black car, has mastered confusion.
I grieve for the loss;
I don't quite know the right way
to feel betrayed. She wouldn't give me
her real name, laughed hard when I romanced
earnestly over the sunset...that was when
she told me as a child
she'd cellophaned a goldfish to a tree
to watch it go to heaven.
Daydreaming During A Sermon On Saint Peter
Whenever I think about the crucifixion
and how it couldn’t be that bad
compared to the rack or the iron maiden,
I immediately think about Mom
stabbing Dad in the ribs,
with her favorite bread knife,
and how, like Christ, that was
the least of his problems. That spring,
me and Him built decks out of dogwood
as a favor to the neighbors.
We weren't asking for donations
but would take them, graciously
to keep the roof over our heads, not quite
pretending to be bearers of good work.
He wasn't a real carpenter. I swear
every time he'd demand
a nail to pound into the pallet boards
he'd hammer his hand,
then throw the hammer and Goddamn
his own Dad for this curse
of son-hood. Me sitting quietly, offering
the box of nails...
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