Out of the Cupboard #6

Presenting: Joseph Goosey


I am hungry.
I told her.

What will you eat?
She asked.
I could bring you
some soup.

No matter,
I said,
I’ve got this here
ice water.

I slept.
Curled up as if
something lived
on the other side
of my door.

I dreamt of killer whales and grease.

In the morning,
before work,
I considered the drive thru
but that g.d. line,
it was so full
of faces.




I dreamt of Harvard,
Stanford, Brown, shit…
especially Brown
what with its trolley system
and well-read brunettes.

But somehow
I couldn’t swing it.

I couldn’t muster the forms,
let alone-

the eyesight.

I could only manage
to smoke cigarettes
under the palms.

When the season turned around
I spent my minutes laid about
on a single white sheet,
masturbating and ordering chinese.

Now, a young girl rides by
on her bike.

Her shirt is green,
and lettered:


I ask,
is that where you go?

She answers in the affirmative.

I lie.
I’ll be arriving, I tell her,
in the Spring
to finish my masters
in linguistics.




I feign tragedy. I feign experience.
The fact of it was
that I had never really SEEN anything at all.
Not the trees,
the rabbit, the rice,
the watertower…
I was only wading in a concrete vat.
I fabricate details due to the fact that once,
long ago, a needle was injected and
I am no longer able to express my distaste.
What was it then, that she required
in order to maintain her battery?
but when you lie too often you create
your own customized
anomie and then
it no longer matters and then you are a perfect




Everyone is smoking my cigarettes.

This, of course,
is fine.

I mean…I do aim to please
but sometimes
I fret.




I am frightened.

Frightened three-fourths
to death
of noon-time.

I wake up
to a curious vibration,
an unfamiliar blackness,
and a tongue
that tastes of wheat.

Marching along
to some very inconsistent
drum rolls…

The Professor of English,
he doesn’t seem to believe
that I am gone,
mentally and
he’s pretty positive
that my art is intact.

The lifeguard,
he eats salmon
without once




My teeth ask only to escape.

Stay in there, I tell them,
stay in there
and in the morning
there will be
a reward for you.

They back down.

I am in charge here.




she walks

That is all.




If I could fuck one poet
and only one poet, it would have to be
this 24 year old Belorussian
I read about

She writes of cultural transition,
of hometown bombings,
of the language barrier.

This Fall the United States will witness
the first ever publication of a collection
that was originally written
in Belorussian.

That collection,
is hers.

I cannot properly locate the place
on any map.

I cannot pronounce her name.

She wears lime green sweaters and
I would hand her my own work
in an attempt to make her
swoon but
the sentiment involved
in vomiting on oneself
most likely does not translate too well
over to Belorussian.

As always, I need another approach.



Questions and Answers

Q)I am always interested to know why someone chooses to write poetry, what are your reasons for doing so?
JG) I write in order to save my ass. Either from something that has already happened, or from something that has not, and may not ever happen and is purely imagined. What I mean is, there is usually an eminent attack on all of our well beings,however trivial they may seem and we all have our ways of dealing. For example, if I receive a speeding ticket, I will write 10 poems in lieu of immediately paying the ticket.

Q)What is going through your head in the moments before you send an email submission or post an envelope of poetry to an editor?
JG)Honestly, not as much is going through my head as there should be. I write the poems, find a publication that interests me in terms of title, colour of cover, anything, and then I get them the hell out of here. I do not spend much time researching where my work should go, which probably shows through. Is that what you mean? Maybe not. More literally, if it is an email submission, I am thinking about how it should not be so easy. If it is a postal submission, I am thinking that it’s too much work.

Q)Having been widely published in various magazines and literary sites are you reaching a point where you feel that your writing deserves wider recognition?
JG)If someone wanted to drop a fellowship, an award, or a grant off at my doorstep I would gladly accept. There are times when I imagine that there will be one waiting for me when I returnhome. We all suffer such delusions. But really, I don’t feel that my writing DESERVES any recognition whatsoever. This interview right now is most likely more recognition than is warranted.

Q)Who are your literary influences?
JG)My shit-job, my not-shit-girlfriend, my shit-ex-girlfriends, Samuel Adams Brewing Company…I mean, Frank O’Hara, Eugene O’Neil, Rimbaud, Bukowski,James Frey, Bret Easton Ellis, Andrei Codrescue, Sartre, Mark Danielewski…those may not influence in the sense that I attempt to emulate some or all of them, but those are people who I read and therefore must influence me whether I care for them to do so or not.

Q)You live in Jacksonville, Florida. Could you tell us more about the area’s art and culture?
JG)The areas art culture is there if you seek it out. I don’t always do so. It’s there and you can go out and feel affirmed by the fact that it is there but you have to look pretty fucking hard. This though, is needed in order for me to create my own art. I have a natural polar reaction to my environment. If I was enveloped in a community of artists I would probably be an aspiring cost accountant or secretary of transportation.

Q)What is your ideal writing environment? Are you somebody who stays at home rooted to their desk or are you the guy sitting out in the wild with a notepad taking in anyone and everything?
JG)The actual writing is done when no one is looking under a light somewhere or else I sneak it in when someone goes to the restroom. I am certainly not out there pulling an Emerson or a Whitman.

Q)What have you got planned for the rest of the year?
JG)A trip to the South of France… No, instead I will be working 36 hours a week parking cars under unreasonable Florida heat. Did you mean in the literary sense? I may or may not have a chapbook coming out from Ben over at C&E’s soon-to-be Poptritus Press. I’ll continue to write unless some disaster takes place or I go completely loony.

Where to go next



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