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."

Days of lube and beer in a can…


They come in droves,
dawning somnambulists,
as I lie by the
edge of the
ancient forest,
away from the
frigid water,
counting the leaves
from the

Everybody removes their
no more cardiologists or CEOs,
no more nurses or firemen,
no more garbage collectors or ragmen,
no more Gravediggers or Horatios,
no salesmen or publicans,
just people
arms stretched out
entering the water
as if by some unseen ordinance,
perhaps based on

The sun
low in the sky
is sinking lower.
Reflecting on the
blood of this
pregnant moment,
I’ve lost the thread
of this action, and lapse

should they remember
their tails, they will always
stand apart from nature,
they will relearn
to print The New York Times
and to build shitty
public schools,
to build monuments
that look out of time,
and to build faith
upon the
foundations of
doomed cities.

I approach the water
and, for a moment,
I let my tongue
dip into the opaque glass.
turning back to the forest,
I climb out of my mouth
and look up at the
wooded skeletons.

I’ve lost my count
and the

Time and Space…
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: poet666, via 0h-tree)