Damon Hubbs is a poet from New England. Recent publications include Hobart, Misfit Magazine, HAWKEYE, The Disappointed Housewife, Horror Sleaze Trash, The Gorko Gazette, Plague Circus Press, and elsewhere. He is the author of the poetry collections Nighttime Logic and Venus at the Arms Fair. He is a poetry editor at Blood+Honey.
In The Ape House
I went to twelve funerals that year
and you fell in love with a boy in the ape house.
Ghastly things, those bagpipes.
Everyone is dog sitting in modernist apartments.
The full moon trilogy
brings out the werewolves, Joan of Arc, teenage lust.
Nothing inspires me.
I copy and paste my heart. Accommodate
opposites, eat a Honeycrisp with a boy
in the ape house.
Let me be clear: She couldn’t love me right.
I’m in my tighty-whities
watching penalty kicks
on the phone.
The weak bird travels on the back of a kite.
Ghastly things, those apes.
I shop IKEA.
I see the Tall Ships.
Woof, woof, woof
woof.
The Romance of Bones
for MB
Hello, hello
how did the rapture
go.
Fake. Fake.
Nothing happens. And much repeats.
The romance of bones is vivid, small.
Smaller than Cranbrook.
I was living in my mother’s room
recounting a journey
where I was trying to find my mother.
The stream where the cranes are small is not in Kent.
Some say
the second part will resolve the first.
I don’t know. It’s lunchtime.
The sun has lewd crutches.
What is one to think of the telegrams in space—
What is one to think of the pigs in the chute in the rain—
Are there sucking stones in Georgia’s greatcoat—
Nothing happens
and much repeats
falling into the evening’s ambulance
like the bandy
fruiting of the trees.
Someone is in the know.
Someone is in good hands.