“dear leo abbe”

Author’s Note: At the beginning of Fall semester, I heard about this upperclassman who writes a lot of poetry. One night after reading his publication “pretty like kids” I said to myself, “You know what would be meta? Writing a poem about a poet.”

Thus, in the words of Genesis 1:7: “And it was so.”


leo, his name is. was. the sigil of the sahara comes

whisper-quiet through ink-grass. not a roar: this is no

battle for territory, these words he’s vomited out into

the atmosphere. at least not against the rest of us.

he’s fighting for himself, perhaps.


i don’t feel like acknowledging the struggle curtailed

behind carefully crafted witticisms so i stick to the surface

too afraid of running aground on the reef.

( “stay where it’s pretty or your own scars will rub loose.” )

a shitty philosophy, but at least it’s mine.

the only lion in the room is also mine – a pride in collective apathy.

leo’s words are mine as well. but he already knew that.

Keep Booze Out of Bob's












he’s a poet, after all.

1 Comment

  1. you are literally doing the lord’s work

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