Zachary Zalman Green

go to your ghosts

The clouds are on sale

making slow mistakes

above Sunday walkers—

a dream about punishment.

Capitalism is to brandish,

to be the wrong ass of an ox,

to be a surface. 

I am a river

or a worm.

I can wait all day

for my hair to dry,

for a season

to confess itself unreasonable.

Insult as ordinary as instruction

remains in an envelope

of snakeskin

of pliability

leaving the window

taking the last scrap of dust

off the monstera

by the credenza.

Nighttime wicked

best guess

a staircase dressed in black.

Is this a horoscope

or a doctor—

this moment on arrival

headed for departure in the fuselage.

Incapable of magic tricks,

a diamond when it’s ready.

I had a forest

and it, too, must burn


guest water

into the museums

of spring

space begins to nauseate

i am in an argument with the lighting

the bucket, the desk lamp

a horse moves a drift-less chair

closer to me than this crooked mallard

i feel my head

it’s forever

heaps of husks

hired hands

plucked and docking

over the curb now

past the yeshiva and tire shop

and seven hours to Chicago

sanctioned against

a clogged neural pathway

or train, or a graduation

the shirt still pressed

a ceremony where waiters and Freemasons

deliver the same news

it will be another year until I feel safe

from third world internet

live-streaming myself as a tanager

I go through periods where I am a basement

wary of how to exit.


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Author Bio

Zachary Zalman Green is the author of THE NUMBER YOU ARE TRYING TO REACH (Quotidian Press, 2017) and the co-founding editor of Ghost Proposal. His work has appeared in Tammy, interrupture. Whiskey Island, Ilk, Columbia Poetry Review, Jellyfish Magazine, phantom, and elsewhere. He currently resides in Minneapolis where he maintains mountains in his head.