biscuit week
MITCHELL ANGELO
The British model of success looks like baking one hundred tarts
inside of a tent. When I shoot for success I will use a crossbow.
Everything I bake will get soaked in rain because England is like that.
I will only refer to Mr. Hollywood as Simon Cowell.
When the judges scold me in their silly accents I’ll laugh wide; unfurl
my long, acerbic dog tongue across the carpet. Bleed vanilla onto the tile.
I want to leave the tent to have a cigarette and be arrested when I return.
You’ll recognize me as the fag on television. The dog catcher
will come with his comically large net and antics will ensue. I’ll be edited out of the final cut
like I never was even there. Tie the blindfold over the hound and shoot it.
You pretend you’re just happy to have been included. You can’t do it all and that’s ok.
No - its not.
My day to day renders me sterile. The realtor says this room is perfect for reaching your arms out wide
and touching nothing and no one. When I shoot for success I will miss by several inches. In my house
I reach for nothing and no one. Everywhere there are as many glasses of water as possible.
I’ve been letting my neighbors watch me undress for the thrill of it - but the thill hasn’t come yet.
In the evenings I knock on each tile of the bathroom floor. I knock fast and hard like I need to say
hello. I touch each and every sterile hexagon. I wait for someone on the floor below
to knock back.
i’m happy here just being with you
MITCHELL ANGELO
The birds stole our protest pins and squawked tiny
metal sounds, there - the homemade heat of Paris.
Salzburg. There are photos in policemen’s pockets of
small, shouting folks. Names fall from mouths
like drool from tattered dogs.
In that place we can’t quite reach, that itch - anarchy. It's there -
behind the ears.
letters and numbers
MITCHELL ANGELO
It's like - bubbling hot. I'm thinking about cancer and not
hot chocolate in the cafeteria. There are thirty-one ripples
in the wallpaper before visiting hours are over. The coats sleep
in a pile on the opposite bed.
The yellow therapy dog in the next room barks when he’s told.
He eats cancer like tough steak like
an old bone like
it tastes good. He can smell where it hurts. From the hospital window the earth looks wet.
The rain runs its fingers over the blank casket. It's grooved like terra-cotta like
a sore throat like
a skinned knee. The dirt spits back letters and numbers that spell out his name. We’re having a
housewarming party. We brought flowers from Walgreens.
It’s like - bubbling hot. I drive my hand into the wet sand to watch
the hermit crabs flee. It’s the first time I’ve been the larger animal.
From the hospital window the earth feels
like it wants to say something.
Mitchell Angelo is a poetry guy and puppet maker, as well as a recent graduate of the SUNY Purchase Lilly Lieb Port Creative Writing Program. He is the former Managing Editor of Gutter Mag. His past publications include Gandy Dancer, The Westchester Review, and Silver Needle Press.