by Alex Loukopoulos
That bulbous eternal
mouth,
the silence
it should be, now
frantic,
all the way down,
salivating with words.
It’s red
now and full
to the brim, dense
with English, the lexicon roiling,
exciting,
red with white-
hot zeal, white like the word
thespian, now spilling from lips,
the distance, decreasing. Your ear in
earshot, delicious,
frail but
hearing something like:
I love my knowledge for you,
my enclave,
so come.
And they came,
at bars, restaurants, and couches,
to every new tongue
they could find.
A proud, empty space,
they were,
always in need of filling.
I'm Alexander Loukopoulos, a writer and poet from Queens. These days I'm obsessed with magazines. Anything I can get my hands on I buy; the weirder and more difficult to read, the better. No matter how hard I try, my poems always end up being about New York City, walking, or, for lack of a better term, the digitizing of the physical, i.e. trying to describe physical sensations through words. When you think about it, language is a really crazy thing. When I'm not writing, I'm rearranging the furniture in my apartment.