For as long as societies and economies are inexorably limited in their growth, bound to agrarian cycles of famine and plenty, and incapable of generating the surplus necessary to finance the development of industry, the deflection of surplus wealth into luxury and display represents an authentic destruction of goods, a sheer squandering of resources whose bounds cannot be increased.
—Norman Bryson’s “Abundance,” Looking at the Overlooked: Four Essays on Still Life Painting
. . . but each of you hungry tramps who read these lines avail yourselves of those little methods of warfare which Science has placed in the hands of the poor man, and you will become a power in this or any other land. Learn the use of explosives!
—Lucy Parsons, “A Word to Tramps”
We march / to bring all men paradise. / If we fall, / millions more rise up / from below. / Earth’s emblem will be / the sickle / on fire / with the hammer in the rainbow’s bow.
—Vladimir Mayakovsky, “Third International,” trans. Peter France
2
i wish we could eat
but we gotta just sit here
waiting well
it’s still life
its sound familiar
25
freckles on a migrant hand
earth in the nail
bluebirds chirping in the root
take this from the fee of knowledge
eat the cost
30
life ain’t no riparian picnic
thus the miss river
as perforated edge
break bunny bread
rip this country in half
32
ok so maybe i did ask to live here
or for these arms and legs
i maybe asked for such beautiful
luck of flora, fucking my eyes out
but i definitely didn’t ask the murderous death machines
to watch me while i work
48
well yeast my ghost!
if i died and you spat
on my grave well
that would be kinda hot
53
i’ll trade you
the last laugh
for the first and all the middle ones
do we have a meal?
54
canned laughter
from a bomb shelter
perfect
sense
61
roses at your sneakers and loafers
lovers in your futons and on floors
lures in your tackle box mouth
something fishy going on
a dash of splash at the horizon
but it hurts to strain your eyes to see it
and the click-clack of heels
on the gallery floor
deafening
73
the text is a still life
a contagious one at that
80
w-wilting lily
like a child’s attempt
at folding a fitted sheet
you’ve got a little mealworm in yr
beak
allow me ow!
84
holding court and breath at the big city dive bar
“martini, olive stuffed w pentimento”
you’re there on scholarship
91
your last meal what’s it gonna be
whatever it is it’s gonna be
a gonna-be slopped atop a deadpan
96
we pillow-talk in tongues
through the glass shattering of storefront windows
the blowing up
of a balloon and the strike
of a thin cheap matchbook
desire has royalty cooked into it
all thrones made of kindling if you squint good
—they can die when they sleep
99
think it will come true?
even if the whole world knows what to do?
101
ok we’re moving too quickly
i’ll ask it again
have you ever actually bent your body down and got on your hands and knees
and put your lips to the ground and kissed it it doesn’t matter where
102
sidewalk or dirt either is fine
i’m saying you should try it
you don’t have to give it tongue or
anything
just a lowly little kiss
kiss the ground
it would mean the world
Henry Goldkamp lives in New Orleans, where he teaches at Louisiana State University, hosts the reading series Splice, edits intermedia for Tilted House, and acts as Communications Director of the New Orleans Poetry Festival. He is the author of Not My Circus (Ursus Americanus, 2025) and JOY BUZZER: A Clown Show (Ricochet Editions, 2025). Recent work appears in Grotto, Denver Quarterly, The Texas Review, Apartment, Rampage Party, and Discount Guillotine, among others. More at henrygoldkamp.com.
He can be found on Instagram @poetrysystems.
