Nick Lantz

Review of my new book (and several other books by several other awesome poets) at Lit Hub: "If you’re looking for momentum, for skillful swerve and riff that holds substance, Nick Lantz delivers." tinyurl.com/36kbzpsp

The glued-together/Lincoln log cabin/my mother sent me/from my childhood/bedroom: I keep looking/in the windows expecting to see/my glued-together life.

I fell asleep watching men in suits/polishing their knives, and I woke up/in a country where even the dog and his tail/are at war. #E4382

I fell asleep watching men in suits/polishing their knives, and I woke up/in a country where even the dog and his tail/are at war.

Stranger/crossing the street in milkman white/between the children playing jacks--/why hide your face behind/the wood you carry? #E4382

And suddenly/you notice/the feet/sticking out/from behind/the curtains. #E4382

There is a planet/somewhere/far away/whose atmosphere is just like ours,/whose swimming creatures will evolve/to wonder where we are. #E4382

Every morning I turn forty/and reach for reading glasses/to double-check the time/for my prostate exam. #E4382

There is calligraphy ink/buried/inside my hand,/the body of a friend (now gone)/lurking/beneath/the frozen over lake of my palm. #E4382

Deep breaths—/in,/out,/one,/two./It’s only life—/me/you. #E4382

Let/down/like the heavy end of a couch--/but we’ll bring the bastard up/the stairs even if/it kills us. #E4382

Here’s what, not why—/the Sopranos isn’t the same/and neither/am I. #E4382

I want to reassign/my genes until i find/a combination/that flashes lights and dumps/a thousand quarters in your lap. #E4382

Asterisk, little star,/let me wonder/what you are in words/like f*ck and sh*t. #E4382

How to write a poem?/A line break/here,/a rhyme nearby/(don’t make it perfect),/a metaphor snuck in like a heart-attack. #E4382

I measure my days/by cups of coffee, my years/by shifting teeth, my life/by what others think/of me. #E4382

Typing is a dance—/la danza de los dedos./Back up, shift, control/yourself and give some space,/return again before you escape. #E4382

A vapor trail bisects the cloudless sky/high above the concrete, steel, and glass/of buildings outside my moving window. #E4382

Comfort is not the plush/satin of the coffin’s walls,/but the distracting smell of starchy foods/at your grandmother’s funeral party. #E4382

My calendar is filling up/with thick, black X’s—/a checkerboard of dead, cartoon eyes/watching me type from above my desk. #E4382