Out of the Cupboard #16

Presenting: Christopher Savage

Editor’s Note:

I don’t remember how, exactly, I found Christopher Savage and his compatriots, the Boho Cocos. I do know that I was still living in Ohio (although at this point I was preparing to come to Austin), and trying to start writing again after graduate school had sucked out my creativity. While hopping around on poetry blogs, I somehow got referred to Austin New Blog. And I loved everything I read (or heard, or saw) there. I still get excited when I see that there are new poems waiting to be read.

In the year since I began reading the works of the Boho Cocos, they have added two more blogs: Boho Coco and Dumbsville. While each blog is written by members of the same group, each blog is unique. While the contributors sometimes cross-post, I have all three in my RSS feed and am guaranteed to get writing that is unique to each one. It’s gotten to the point where I don’t think I could pick just one. Each of these blogs has its own voice, but at the same time, it’s important to read it in context with the other Boho Coco blogs. They can stand alone, but they’re much more fun when considered in relation to each other.

Austin is home to a number of poets, but I’ve come to consider Christopher Savage and the Boho Cocos as the epitome of Austin poetry. If there were an Austin School of Poetry, they would be at the forefront. They would be our examples. While my own work is quite different, I admire the rambling, sprawling Boho Coco aesthetic, and I’m proud to feature co-founder and member Christopher Savage here at Gloom Cupboard.
Artist’s statement:


Christopher Savage is a co-founder and contributor to the literary group, the Boho Cocos. Their overall vision is that of collaboration amongst a literary set with a focus on multimedia. They use elements of theater, poetry, prose in their work. As for Christopher, he is a writer/performer who likes things that are irrelevant, emotional, humorous, and fun. He believes in free verse, flash fiction, long novels, and epic poetry. He is also highly interested in the performance aspect of literature. He has a cat and lives in Austin, Texas.



town river

this jungle we have
lived in
some years


is untrue and
it has yielded many legions
cats prowling around
at night in search
of us.

we hide up near
the lampposts.
we sleep upside down.

and in the kinder mornings,
we set foot gently upon the walk

in hopes of a great fleet of buses
come to change

we hold our breath; we
we who are ourselves soft and

catch like sparks across the
drift of a breeze near
the town river

and disperse.



burglar king

Two motorcycles rode away from the diner under cover of midnight. The burglar king stood outside, gripping his left elbow, scar over his right temple, black mustache, silver nose ring, eager eyes. He watched the cyclists escape and he grunted. Inside the smooth silk diner, a fire cooked over the red booths and threatened to hog the windows. The burglar king grunted again and walked away into the desert beyond. Three children in jean jackets sat low in the ditch opposite the road. They watched the diner burn. They each held their breath. One wanted to run, but the other two held him down. It was a mystery, but they watched. The image of the burglar king faded and the boys released. The jumpy one ran towards the flames and called out a name. The other two boys were too afraid to move and glanced momentarily upward at the stars. A comet; the Milky Way; a satellite




sun down dad go inside it’s too hot out here

the cars on the hillside
made of Velcro

or so it seems

stuck in their tar and on
their curb.

old dad let’s
himself have a drink;
the cat

out there stretching its claws
under a patio


old mother sits in the kitchen

glass of water sit too.

stillness of newspaper
boys, a bicycle passes,
some drain runs off
the excess of the morning,

be careful. mother has

the shakes.




lonesome servant

I watched you exhume
the corn from

shelter of green

and knew you then
in repose
a life lived for sad moments, or maybe
I thought
of the black tar
and my bicycle tracks
the Fourth of July.

happy birthday!

I would like us to close
latched windows, slam
our doors,
listen to the hissing
of summer
through the fracture of glass.

it’s time to be the collapsed thresher on the corn
unloved and forlorn,
beautifully red and sufficient
its defeat.

be proud;
toss the corn off
the balcony now,

I’ll love you forever.


believe in strawberries

believe in strawberries
in a cupboard,

a bark,

somewhere a neighbor o’
enters an apartment,
ghost tv,

the zombie dog,

lonely key carrier,
coffee table,

hapless mission to remove and fend shoes into
a borderless closet.

entirely different

a ringing bell
attached to a lime hued statue.

it rings.

believe in strawberries

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