Wednesday, August 19, 2015

Greg Santos


Deaths in the evening, births in the morning.
Homely are the tuxedos for family mourning.

I’ll always remember when you touched my heart:
it was gelatinous and smelled vaguely of Rene Descartes.

I’m glad I disassembled you and put you back together.
I bought the turkey dinner made from imitation leather.

Let us raise our flamethrowers in celebration!
I have joined the national aeronautics and space administration.

Where’s a rotten egg when you need one?
I know of a metaphysical preacher named John Donne.

It is not a cactus, a cheese curd, or a shroud.
Look through the telescope: it’s the Large Magellanic Cloud!

I hope to be a finalist for a prestigious contest.
I’m crossing my fingers not to suffer from cardiopulmonary arrest.

Greg Santos is the author of Rabbit Punch! (DC Books, 2014) and The Emperor’s Sofa (DC Books, 2010). His writing has appeared or is forthcoming in The Walrus, Geist, Cosmonauts Avenue, and The Feathertale Review. He is the poetry editor of carte blanche and teaches creative writing to at-risk youth. He lives in Montreal.

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