Three Poems by D.C. Wojciech


if you're trying to destroy a work of art.

invite the crowds to haggle over its merit.

frame it on a wall & try to fit there yrself.

the only problem with a universe in constant motion

is that i can't believe the voices in matchbooks anymore.

it's been nearly 2,000 years

and still nobody can bring Mouseion

back from the grave.

what will save us from the same fate

is what most men fear

in a room alone with themselves.

the men before me were all discussing saviors.

it is only right that i carry on tradition

by bringing strawberries into the kissing booth.


the sex of yr love is the mouth of the candle.

the other side of yr body of water

is a dove dipping its skull into the hidden air—

the flight of 10,000 monarchs through eucalyptus

will tell you nothing of the mind unless

you were there.

here in this city

where we kept more

than lies between our legs.

the tight rope leading from stomach to mouth.

the lotus springs forth from mud.

i will love you no matter how many

are next door on the overpass screaming

to the armies of ants in their craniums—

heaven is watching you walk across this room.

hell is this "dry" motel.

in my spirit i know we were made to work, fuck, dream & be holy.

if you come here begging to differ just know

i'll never stop holding hostage

this orb of light in my ribcage.


every time i walk past the museum

i dream of buying Van Gogh another ear

the wind feels up the thigh

of a cigarette on Broadway…

the Zen men & Zen women

stand at the bus stop clapping one hand

for the empty cars

the mind is still yet to be seen—

whether a pocket full of levers

can stop the revolving doors of yr life

depends more upon the price of barley

in remote Finnish villages

than the headlines will all tell you.

so much so that we as a species invent

invisible walls standing between syllables & conjecture

the potential for dream bodies

to continue careening

the surplus of destinies bouncing in space

cranial grapefruit twine globes altered returns magnanimous

, they’ll have to tear my lips from the secret air.

in order that the Molotov cocktails

for the night's uprisings

be made with only the finest Polish vodka

the distillery owner fired himself—

because those who preach peace

are many times over those who spread war.

blacking out in 1996 upon being told

that people are nouns—

waking up in 1988 on the other side of these mountains...

anywhere in the mind the Help Wanted signs

are glossed over with 2,000 years of Roman occupation.

it is only right—

a photogenic bare knuckle



in every photograph

of armored trucks.

if memory serves

is no way to start a sentence

even though on the 1st and 15th

nobody can faithfully question

whose or what god

you are currently praying to


D.C. Wojciech is the founder of Anvil Tongue Books, and is the author of The Longest Breath (Anvil Tongue, 2020). He resides in the Sonoran desert.

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