Zach Buscher


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140 degrees of doing it. Characters. I drip a hard cider with reach dead cartoon I’ve clubbed: punctuation as means of protestant restraint.

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The party went off with a hitch: Bran flaked, forgetting the hardtack & duck gravy. Strobes milked seizure. Flashed bits of fragged fiction.

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Indecent exposure, northern proposal. My wires are crossed as a pair of robot stars. Socks. Show me your laundry & I’ll show you my machine.

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Calendar cuts you an image deep. It must be trash day, your year to walk the cul-de-sac doggerel. Quarter for rat-boys in ox-tongue park.

from Text

Forgive us this shortness of breadth, but my space is piggybank sacred. At our unattended funerals, lets hope AutoTuned elegies will repeatedly read themselves.

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Skeleton walks into a bar, orders his G and T with a side of mop. Stop goes my sad sack waxing as a friend crying SOS over SMS. Wasn’t I banned from the band too?

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Lets throw us out a safe word. Might I suggest defenestration as a way to render the potted plants? If she tosses in the night, I’ll collect your shocked shell.

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Recapitulate is another word I tend to misuse. Recapitulate, to tie one on after the guillotine. And one means head. And capitulate is a how to guide for keeps.

Zach Buscher always lives and writes, and occasionally teaches and serves as Poetry Editor for Sonora Review, in Tucson, AZ. He's currently finishing up his MFA at The University of Arizona, where he is a Beverly Rogers Fellow. Recent work appears online in 42opus and SHAMPOO, with more forthcoming in 580 Split and My Name is Mud.

 
 
 
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