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Kris Hall

Contorted cataracts begging for wisteria;

pinioned to the sweet futility

of immense color pumping vines

beyond this compartment routing inertia

adapting gazes of saline surrounding

water soaking quinoa and lentils.

Shape the person un-dimpled by

the first snowballing hour, xenization

in the mid-flooded everything.

Shape the person splinting in time

fistfuls of hair, nails, cum

punching you into empty traffic.

This body is a blob

squirming out of a bottle

driven to live quotes verbatim—


            standards are your mother’s hustle.


I’m tossed up in that

pinch with a piercing thrust

catapulting feverish stutters in the

stripped moon, clawing my feet

stuffed in cups unclipped at

the ankles. I found it

in the curtaining slow motion

where my face had been

grooved into steps by the

stacks of half transparent books

scattered on the floor. Excuses being

that we’ll keep blaming perception.

An itch I’ve mangled throughout

my history with this evening—

the brush of tiny hairs, legs.


            my history with quiet rooms.


Poetic Statement:

The chapbook from which this is taken is titled GRILLED CHEESE HAMARTIA. It is a failing marriage of parallels between road trips, shrill nostalgia, dead end jobs, and poetry. Broken narratives placed in stanzas.



Kris Hall is a writer and curator [Da’daedal/Free Poetry] from Seattle, WA.  His chapbook of bastard ghazals, Notes for Xenos Vesparum, is forthcoming in the Fall of 2014  [Shotgun Wedding]. He has nine siblings, three middle names, two cats, and one girlfriend. You can find more information



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