Issue 8: Michael Scharf


A golf club


        upside down

       down the length

  of the esophagus —

        the club head just showing

            though teeth


   in contractor’s bags

      piled at curb for 12:30am


Other bags, filled just with blood,

                     opaque, shiny

   bulging, misshapen,

  drained for sodium

and pumped into

   the streetlights

All the city’s dogs

  electrocuted and left stiff,

           piled, burned


Elevators run on long cords

         in whatever direction they are needed.

Whimsical Packet

Medical element, preserved


strung walls, busted

umbrellas, rice,

lobster claws

strained violin tops,

scrolls, shower

stars, lone peach with

blossom, S.A.

eggplant colored bath

sticky star, hanging

ice-cube like, isolated

flecks, evidence of scrapes,

more fruits and bursts

faded and distressed.


When death was a master and not a miasma, not a failure

of health care—when the graveyard sat within the town, city, square block—

when, sickened, you turned your eyes up—

Fuck the ward and its beeps

            night as it creeps



             pushes outward

                           to assimilate


     and then pushed

into higher state



    hodding handling

Es gibt

Il faut

 To a fault

        he crept

taken token

    too closely


     in 3

  1, 2

Michael Scharf is the author of Telemachiad and For Kid Rock / Total Freedom. He lives in New York and Shillong.

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