ERIK FUHRER


Erik Fuhrer holds an MFA from the University of Notre Dame. His work recently appears
in Crack the Spine, Maudlin House, Cleaver, and Ghost City Press. The first poem is a
collaboration with Abby Burns, who has an MFA in creative writing from the University
of Notre Dame. Her work has appeared in Entropy, (b)OINK zine, Bending Genres,
Ghost Parachute, Pidgeonholes Magazine and more.






Apocalyptical Contest

The apocalypse won a contest on the radio
and dreamt of buying seven sheep
so it could bring them to a mountain in Switzerland
and live the quiet life like Daniel Day Lewis
who has become a blade of grass in the Irish countryside

The apocalypse believes in lawn maintenance
dreams one day of owning a grade-A John Deere
so he could sheer DDL clean of dust and Kerrygold

The apocalypse cherished There Will be Blood
and spilled oil in my body once or twice before
trying to make it to that big time end of time oil refinery
in my lungs where cows graze on my oxygen
until they develop hyperoxia and pass out into my bloodstream
moooving through my body as firmly as the apocalypse
after two straight hours on the elliptical machine
at the gym where it stares at people doing lunges in the mirror

But the apocalypse could barely afford a mower
let alone six sheep or a plane ticket
so it folded its body into a mountain
next to the New York Sports Club
in the middle of Manhattan
sleeping soundly among the traffic jams






Being the Apocalypse

At Bread and Puppet
the puppets lay their bodies
in the apocalypse's footprints
forgetting the bodies
that once moved them

as John Malkovich slices
open the labyrinth
of the apocalypse
with a taut string singing
and climbs inside
a pocket of brain

When the Grateful Dead's
American Beauty plays
in the background
Malkovich dances wild
on the soft brain tissue

prompting the apocalypse
into a clumsy waltz
all the while thinking
yes
this must be beauty
as it crushes
each puppet
under its
jagged soles






Ode to the Apocalypse 6

You
that carnival ride that nearly ejected my 13 year old body into the yamful sky

You
the high school day after Easter when I had to tell my teachers my father died

You
the soil that I dug underneath my fingernails

You
the weight of the ceiling fan that I made sure could hold my body

You
the weight of my body






Cowboy Apocalypse

A John Wayne cowboy stirruped up to the apocalypse and read it its rights
The apocalypse toed a tumbleweed in the light hairnetted by shadows
and flicked a toothpick at the cowboy's shoeshined feet as it ate a fig
plucked from a tree out east where the apocalypse sat indoors at a desk
studying the habits of John Wayne cowboys and faulty movie sets

The John Wayne cowboy stuck to the script with an obligatory squint
and drew his gun on the apocalypse, aiming right for its fleshball heart pocket
The apocalypse pulled another fig out of its sack and continued to eat
as the John Wayne cowboy muttered something about a final warning

Juice spilled down the apocalypse's face as the John Wayne Cowboy began to stumble
over words: the script did not have an option built in for fig eating and John Wayne
was never recorded eating a fig or a kiwi or a full head of lettuce
all of which the apocalypse had now pulled from its sack
and set before the John Wayne cowboy who by this point was getting hungry enough
to lower his gungrab a figand let the juice stain his boots with abandon



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