Drew Kalbach


Get close.
Thumb it near
nasal passages which slip deeper
into whatever seems possible every day.
Otherwise, matte black
seams mix with
torn out hair, catch
in the cold, slip and let water drip
through cracks in shoes.

Like I have an extra
remote to spare.
Through four-inch thick glass no
plastic yeah plastic some new polycarbonate enhanced/enriched plastic you reach out your acrylic perfectly colored nails and place that extra IR receiver in my palm like a sacrament.
Lights turn up.
I owe someone somewhere.


Make all right choice marginal-
lalia glassed back and over through
high gloss dudes.
I reach level two and molt.
My powers multiply, each new digit quarantined and looped into representational graphics and algorithms equaling movements, damage, defenses.

Fuck the Spring,
I split open palm slap
third eye out there.

Sic hoc new dress shoes.
Sine functions make me quake
when a nice loop goes dip and remakes my cabinets
in its own likeness.
Where have you grown from?
Note on shelf life, note on needing another battered body to commiserate before a frying. Compensate. Cineplex anachronism. I drive by movie in my slowest motion mechanism and call it in for the cops to deal with. Note on technophobia, note on holiday electricity usage, note on graceless exits. Note on locked out in the snow, in sheets of ice slipped off smooth aluminum hoods. Note on dodging the frozen neighbor’s need for help and good will. Note on transgendered speech, twisted into burial litany. You can’t open a window in this neighborhood. Speakers triangulate the position of both body and echo. You can’t slow down in this neighborhood. Note on crime rates, note on your body wrapped in sweat drenched sheets. You can’t unlock your door for any curly haired thing, no matter the cost of siding, no matter the cost of six inch splinters along your toes. In a matter of hours my first snow day begins. Note on severed tree dying. Note on too bright festivities lasting too late into the night. You’ll come to a crawl on the sidewalk and ignore the indoors. Note on finding an old coat in the middle of January. Note on filthy apartments, note on water gone bad, note on pure chemical reactions where no chemicals are found and nobody takes a photograph to prove it.

Drew Kalbach is from Philadelphia. He is the author of Spooky Plan (Gobbet Press 2014), one chapbook, two e-books, and poems in journals both online and in print. He edits the online magazine Spooky and writes about media and poetry for Actuary Lit. His work has appeared recently or is forthcoming in Fence, Radioactive Moat, Cabildo Quarterly, Whole Beast Rag, Tarpaulin Sky Press, and others.
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About Posit Editor

Susan Lewis (susanlewis.net) is the Editor-in-chief and founder of Posit (positjournal.com) and the author of ten books and chapbooks, including Zoom (winner of the Washington Prize), Heisenberg's Salon, This Visit, and State of the Union. Her poetry has appeared in anthologies such as Walkers in the City (Rain Taxi), They Said (Black Lawrence Press), and Resist Much, Obey Little (Dispatches/Spuyten Duyvil), as well as in journals such as Agni, Boston Review, The Brooklyn Rail, Conjunctions online, Diode, Interim, New American Writing, and VOLT.