Heir Apparent

Issue #46 November 2017

Avenue J | Janelle Effiwatt

Forget trash out on the bricks for now

My pharo caves

My skewed ol’ daddy

                     groomin us

We bone–marrow or bow–legg–ed?

We all in one house

Overbooked to the fat sky

                     like rice

                               In this city turning in with us looks bad

                               & falls large

How like a plot of land is discovered

How for us no winter pangs to plug up the noise

                                About the black tax

& it’s year 4 billion— our kind of Florida               chills, & chewing gum counts like

           stolen property; you said I look better through the backdoors

Where the dogs passout

& it sounds like yesterday has lost you

                                               In a little blotch of Africa

I'm no landowner in these skins

(Our coughing fits & the sound shade makes)

Dad’s hands                our obvious bags

Stalactites are Falling

& solid. I’ve even read

they begin to touch

on account of being affected wind,

performing like parents do— being related,


Watch for the edge taking off; the day I left you to Iowa City.

& vents, too,

bend like this

The Cosmopolitans

Brooklyn’s off–beat as usual & us, in seconds,

escape vocab to a boiling pot.

I am told I’ll be next to marry. My man dancin with me

weird upstairs— we stream, & I like to be in motion.

Nude I can. Vegas sees us up close like hands,

like how they phase–out & can speak for us.

Who got the script ready? We are actors with no

mouths. people boulevards. A name stitched in glass.

So sobby we get— skinny/sunny/sulky with the drapes shanked. I wish

for your brother & that's all that's allowed. We don't eat much Tuesday,

leave the hotel branched out with our things on

pitched black, & my mood took to the bed & crumbled.

Brooklyn’s way out there with no sugar, sugar,

but so far off I'm swellin for some.

Toad​ ​Boy

These days we slouch; we are

no–good between the “American springtimes”; now who’s flower–vacant,

Ashy Billionaire?— Speak up in your sleep,

Afro-Pubes. Maybe Turkey does get hotter than

our summer, nail–biting in silence, humping and plowing what I imagine snow to look like.

Here isn't California quite yet, Numbnuts—it’s violet.

It’s not quiet. You sit here to visit

with your fresh–child howling onto a phone screen:

there’s always a screen to cheers to.

We can name it a class–issue but

whoever seen you spend time like that?

Your mother looks like lavender

should be native here. Can you believe how cold

your wife’ll be? Makin’ out like a pretty White–Girl

who knows more about aviation

or air.

Today, October

is​ ​still​ ​hot​ ​as​ ​shit​ ​&​ ​slaps.​ ​even​ ​the​ ​birds

too​ ​tired​ ​to​ ​break​ ​their​ ​necks,

even​ ​the​ ​mother​ ​fuckers​ ​on​ ​their​ ​bikes​ ​are​ ​older

                                   at​ ​6​ ​a.m.

where​ ​your​ ​mouth​ ​fall

           on​ ​Speedway?

where​ ​can​ ​you​ ​visit​ ​from?

to​ ​me,​ ​we​ ​wear​ ​things

til​ ​they​ ​fall​ ​out,

til​ ​we​ ​create​ ​dirty​ ​melodies

                       like​ ​this.