top of page



Will Mountain Cox

Tonight sounds like a Kanye song,

the old ones, but the new Kanye.

Whatever, not important.

the Book of Revelation was written

just down the road, and I'm in the ocean

just down the road

letting the waves push me

and tug me, in and out of my plans

for the future. For the moment

everything is triangles

and insecurities

and major arcana cards.

The high priestess is you

the hanged man, me, but reversed

and we have cups full of sea water

with knights and pages to serve us

at our ocean table for eating


I try only drinking

two drinks a day

before dinner.

but the sun is hot as all its dangers,

making us drunker than two drinks

in the dark

ever could.

making us thirstier than two drinks

at a birthday

ever could.

I pull.

I really pull.

but I push myself to more healthy relations:

the high vegetal

and thick protein options

of sex

and love

and what we need but never order.

In want of health

I ordered myself another drink,

laid my guilts across your gummy eyes

and found myself

hanging on your words.

As high priestess you demanded me to whisper

saints before drinking.

I told and cried and begged for you

to cut me off. Instead

like the gods you plan to be, you asked me,

‘who will we eat for dinner?’

You ordered the salad

with cucumbers

and tomatoes

and feta

and olives

and the fish too,

and together it made me happy.

But I was already failing

to wait thirty minutes. The memories

waiting just 30 seconds before allowing themselves

some drowning.

If there was garlic in our dinner

then I’ll be fine, that's what the cards say,

that's what my mouth says,

reeking of care

and the salt that's in the water

washing it out.

I spit a fountain, smelling like care

toward you on the shore,

toward you on the hike

to get here,

towards you in the city we came from,

where we were different.

The ocean smells like a Greek salad now,

and like fish too,

from having my mouth in it.

I like the way you smell

when you tell me my future,

like garlic and care,

pulling me and tugging me

in and out,

up and down,

like a moon

who knows when it's wanted

and yet still comes back.

Again and again,

find me hanging

with my head in the water

and my feet in the air

for some kind of unnecessary trick

of looking good

while failing to listen.


bottom of page