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4 Poems || Keith J. Varadi

American Sign Language


I was a man by the time

I got cancer or whatever.


Nothing is a big deal

in the face of the sun.


Missouri is one big redhead,

and nothing feels good.


Play house in the charred desert

in fear of the unknown, Calabasas.


God! I need to retrieve my life

from the garbage disposal.


I buy Adderall and Drano

to clean my mind and space.


I eat French fries and hummus

because I’m an elegant diplomat.


I am waiting for the year 2020,

when neuroses will be revered.



Dub Sigs


As much as I care
about your fruit bowl,
I lose interest
in the famine talk.

I can see now
why Atlas shrugged.

That’s not to say
Ayn Rand
was not a cunt.

I guess I’m just trying
to say I’m sorry
for all my neuroses
that have a Gotti vex.

At least I’m in Hollywood now.





Washing cigarettes
into fabric as a familiar
act of Godliness

Watching street mutts
circle invisible prey
is an illusion of nature

Overhearing friends
try to locate themselves
on personal GPS devices

I stand still like a Frenchman
en plein air and in plain clothes
and paint over monochromes



Green Rewards


Every liberal arts girl you once knew,

who used to like blow and blew you,

now eats at Applebee’s; thank God.


And every time she got caught

in a three-way freeway squall,

you were dressed like Elvis.


This poem is like the time I almost died,

and you are like the cop who shot me,

and I am a black mark on your left lung.


Let’s breathe all of these messy headlines

into black and white categories; and hey,

categorically speaking, America sucks.



Keith J. Varadi is a Los Angeles-based artist, writer, and curator. He received his MFA from Virginia Commonwealth University and his BFA from Rutgers University. He has exhibited his work and the work of others at various international venues, performed mainly on the East Coast, and published most of his writing primarily on the Internet.