Spector Gant

"My own experience, " observed William Faulkner, "Has been that the tools I need for my trade are paper, tobacco, food and a little whiskey."

Fence me in, fence me out.
plastic cat in light snow 
sees a vast nothing

He Comes

He’s always peering
lasciviously around the
corner of my mind.
An archeologist of sorts, he
chisels at my nose and examines the
jagged, purplish rocks.

His cackle is a broken
giggle box lodged deep
in my diaphragm
bubbling out when I tilt
my head back
too far, my mouth opening
dangerously wide.

He always comes
with a sort of theatrical trench coat,
legs and arms covered in coarse hair,
greasy, long hair, wild in
parts as if he tried to
slick back that unwashed
mop using a partially toothless comb.

He stares too long
at the fine fresh spring
Unfurl for me!
he cries—
too desperately,
his hot breath lodged in my throat,
a foul sickly sweet odor
of soupy peat moss.

He comes
too much
these days.
An unwanted alley cat in heat,
overripe fruit
split open in the sun,
too much dandelion wine
on a hot summer day.


TREE SMOKES POETRY, A CHAPBOOK: written by tree with art by fawn

Rectangle, a misleading shape for the world beyond the aqua green doorway of the pages to be turned. A world of underwater smoke, beautifully complimented by fawn’s art nouveau lines. Hold onto the forms at the entrance…chinquapin, tanka, chantey…forms that are loosened quickly into “Snake-like e pantoom-esque” shapes. This is a world that “awakes/in crystalline” but is immediately “full/of doubt”…it exist in the polarity of Eros and Thanatos, the “skeletal near conifer/swore to swallow sun-” that is reborn in the music of a guitar, the music that exists all throughout the words that quickly envelope you…”you float such away”. There is magic here, cast upon us by ‘Luna’, while, “our poor mouths are made of tissue/thus words drip with a punch drunk slur”. Let tree stretch out on Quantum Blues, and you find that “we are whirling through/particles guided by a/book of physics like/so many books of the dead”. This space blossoms as we travel the microscopic only to find the macroscopic, “approximate infinity/as close as far as/inside out is inside me/as unconscious as water.” The hourglass is turned upside down…turning us by our waist, as the floor has become the ceiling, we are toppled, as we are urged, “don’t waste my hips/waist my brains”. The canvas has become black, and the lines now white, this world has deepened, and fawn allows us to wander around and and around. Color explodes in the blues, the “meaningful intensity/of picasso’s blues”. A masterpiece signals death, and everlasting life. So what else to do but


laugh& laugh

-even if

it’s only to

keep yourself

from dying-

This world of magic is not without it’s dangers. Wandering into the spinning room of musicians and poets, of artists pushing the limits, you’ll find “the air is melting”. There is want and mystery and need: “no matter how many/hearts break/I don’t always know how/to shake/these ugly ways to live…”.  We grapple for ‘declaratives’ but are left with an ‘interrogative’ and being caught again on a black canvas and the rain and snow. Even still, when you exit, you can smell the flowers, you can smell the flowers. 

You can follow tree at treesmokespoetry.tumblr.com and on twitter at @treedeoliveira. Hopefully tree has not run out of copies of this chapbook for you, and is selling them at a reasonable rate. 


I think it’s only fair to say a few things about myself. First, let me say I’m really very trustworthy. I like to wink at people I’m speaking to, so I hope that’s not a problem. I don’t like blood—if you bleed, I’ll faint. If I’m uncomfortable, I’ll probably lie about your sense of style (you should really wear more ascots). I am incredibly insecure and I might steal the money in your wallet on a dare (is this the wrong time to tell you I was the one responsible for stealing your most cherished baseball cards?). I don’t think much about the greener grass. I don’t like my steak medium rare, and Pretty In Pink bores me. I blackout when I drink. A lot. I’ll snort/huff/smoke/ingest just about whatever you got. I’m a part-time hypochondriac. I probably tried to kiss your girl/boyfriend. I yell a lot. I smile too much. I laugh inappropriately. I lied about seeing Caligula and I’ve masturbated while thinking about your mother. I wish I was famous. I rarely acknowledge the people who love me. I am deeply afraid. I made all this up so you would like me.



THE VERY FIRST GIVEAWAY WINNER IS SPECTORGANT!  You should check out his work as well!
I am going to message you now! *\(^_^;)/°





You should check out his work as well!

I am going to message you now! *\(^_^;)/°



(Source: ohellotheresa)

reading your poetry (fr. Weak Signals)

reading your poetry
looking at your photo
for signs of me
in the turn of a phrase
the lift of an eyebrow
sinister love lost truths
as your tears pound on the yellowed
pillowcase, blanket turned
twisted in discomfort,
the lines under your eyes
like the worried rhythm
on the page

Body Parts

I have been told
I am not a machine,
masked men gleefully

show me the blood
as proof, but still
the automaton of the body

capriciously coordinates
and heals on its own
accord. My toes mumble,

stout little men on the march,
while my pinkies,
overlords of the thumbs,

silently wait for grace.
I am suspicious
of my abdomen’s dreams:

it tosses in a restless sleep,
growling in a language
I do not understand

(nor do I want to).
I am in a silent war
with the hair growing

in my ears. They sprout
in secret commandos
at night, when I am

lost fighting in the basement
of my low self-esteem,
which reminds me

I once had a lucid dream:
I was an electrical current
wondering how my sleeping body

went on breathing without
me. I see ill portents
in my scars, and worry

about the porousness
of skin. Furrowed brow,
my thoughts are tiny

shards of glass. While
others sing about the body,
I silently float apart.

I Am Afraid

I am afraid of litanies
I am afraid of my dark places
I am afraid of my own blood
I am afraid of blind spots
I am afraid of waking up in the middle of the night
I am afraid of long lines
I am afraid of my own rhythms
I am afraid of my mother
I am afraid of spoiled meat
I am afraid of jorts
I am afraid of misplaced humor
I am afraid of this poem

Baby Turkey

She pulls up the driveway
and finds him there,
a look of concern adding extra
wrinkles to his drooping brow
and his hands forming
a holy steeple
that he now points at her.

Her worry follows the path
he must have taken to arrive
here at the front of the house,
down the stairs he shouldn’t
traverse, into the garage
too cramped for his wizened
years to navigate, reaching
his current, uneasy perch, exposed.

In the bush, he says, pointing,
brushing aside her questions
about being out front with
a comment about a spade
he needed. In the bush,
he says again. She kneels

near the bush to
calm him down
and buried inside she finds
a baby turkey, lost and alone.
She suddenly thinks about
how the time will come when
she’ll need to bury her father.
He says, quietly, it’s OK.

He is cooing at the baby
turkey, trying to bend
as close to the ground
as his legs will support,
she looks up at him,
her father, a halo forms
around his head

as he blocks the sun
behind him, his hands
reaching down, and
soft sounds coming
out his white-whiskered
mouth until he makes a
small sound of pain.

You need to help this
baby turkey, this
peru pequeno,
to find its way,
he says, as he winces,
closing his eyes.
She looks up
and whispers,
I shall
I shall