spork press . oeuvring
archive of printed pieces
archive of online stuff after 5.7.11
online stuff before 5.7.11 (poetry) (fiction)
nothing to see here
audio / podcast
submit to spork
FB   ///   TWIT

3 Poems by John Myers

Young Mean Blond


The fall is an extension of the somersault, my itch

is at the part of my back I can’t reach and you can.


Blind me and I’ll ignore my handicap

come strut into your shower, neons

gay and hearty. Lift me your chin. I can’t

chase sex with language. Log Cabin Janus’ coterie of birds flap

in a cage dropped from the bridge into the river mourning in

sunglasses and gin.

When your dream thaws you’ll say you thought you had to.

I aim the rain as it plips the stumps and torques the river. Desire, unprecedentable, catches me out on my tether wherever he goes. Would you take me


on your houseboat

lotion up my crack? Let’s relax your shoulders

by cradle or by crow. I’ll turn you back into a stand of silver birch

to rule the Valley of the Idea. Whom else can you attend, crown




Desirable in a Shipmate


To stack the deck for my goals

I assemble men to whom fluency’s

attractive and cocksureness is lure. To pick my stud

in terms of raw numbers

I’m thinking snow

is a perfect example though once I pick I need

only one good bonfire to create intimacy.


In any circus my favorite is the gymnast

bent the way I want. I’ll staple a kite tail to you,

swallow you like a saucer, like I have swallowing


been assigned.

Your tackling me sets in motion

the circuitry of blood meant for my dick meanwhile my grandmothers


get out their daguerreotypes. My grandmothers have

a collection. See this Adam’s apple, they coo, is yours

even close? I think as I swallow, Is it the broom or its closet

that smells like a rabbit hutch?


Dunbar’s Number


Thorough as anything physical distance can’t exclude or answer

a phylogenetic chart for eyes is nothing like the experience of sight.

Barbed wire melts almost visible when it’s looked through. Like a blanket

you’re upstairs and on the bed raring

Let’s go. I apologized for the thong-shaped damp spot masturbation left

and which stayed in the humidity for hours. A lap

isn’t a lap if it hasn’t been sat on and pleasure

isn’t planned. We’ve become blind in so many

wary ways. Refusing myself “obligatory” jealousy is my pleasure

built like a longhorn our pleasure touches.

Any more than

one hundred fifty is abstract to us, like a faraway cadence.



John Myers lives in Missoula, MT. His first manuscript was recently selected as a finalist for publication by Omnidawn Books, and his poems are forthcoming in Handsome.