Spearmint and Bob Dylan

Somewhere every town
in Utah
there’s a tree–
aspen, white trunk–
that reaches up so high
you could drown in

the clouds
it leads you to. You
could drink them. Taste
like spearmint and
Bob Dylan’s loveliest songs.
And if you get lucky, and they’re
cumulonimbus the morning
you climb

on up, you can grab
hold and they’ll
carry you
anywhere. Chicago, Singapore,
Bahrain. Anywhere with
more to see than
two dance
moves and marrying
friends. Music in

the streets,
sex in the sheets,
you just got to
wait till they’re
cumulonimbus and have the
guts to
grab ahold.


Trevor Knorr’s 116th Dream

It was December and
I sat down on
some cement
in Canada just
trying to remember what the cold
felt like when I
was 12 and losing
jackets, but strong memories don’t

come back
easy anymore–anyway a nice
Canada day and me
feeling real
sad about it
and the undercover
cop must’ve
seen that written all over
my face when he

offered to sell me
a couple
and pulled out the
handcuffs as
I pulled out the
cash and anyway I don’t like to
embarrass anyone

cops in my
dreams be-
cause I’ve got
too much power in
my own
head but
come on he was using
sadness against
me so I took the right
cuff quick off
swung it around his ankle

said something about
donuts I
said that’s too stereotypical I gotta
write a
poem about this
he said sorry got talking
about tinder
dates which was more like
it now he was
a real person instead of
cop and while
he did
that I ate
an apple down to the seeds
took the
left cuff off
put it on the
planted a seed inside the
circle took

coppy’s gun
used the principle of interchangable parts to make
it a super soaker that’s how
it works
right? wasn’t really concerned
anyway just needed
to water my
seed so I did that but
the tree wouldn’t grow and the
cop was running out of date
stories it
had the water the
it didn’t

have the sun it
didn’t have the sun of
course but that
ugly smog
was right above us
blocking out
the last piece to my get-
away and
no matter how hard I
thought it stayed
right there grew
an ugly
mouth said I’d
have to remember what it
looked like behind
so I
cried took some of coppy’s fake stuff lit
up and
pretended to get high until
he finished his third story
about erectile dysfunction
and now

it was all off
his chest so
he shot me with that
taser and
carried me
to the courthouse.

I’d like

I’d like to write about anything besides
myself but I’ve had so many stories
and was the main character in every
one I’ve been so many stories in the
spring every raindrop fell just to clean
me and the gutters didn’t even get wet
I swear that’s what I saw it was
dry gutters and dirty me until my skin shone and
everyone had to look at how beautiful
teeth chattering in the street wet
to the nerves that’s when summer
came to warm me up I swear the sun didn’t set
for three months why would it?
when it got so lonely spending those
hours awake leaves jumped off
the trees just to be with me I
left too many on the ground and now
the snow is falling and I can’t see
them anymore I can’t see the gutters
I can’t see the sun but that’s alright
maybe I’ll just lie down in the stuff
until it makes me warm or I figure
out what it has to do with


Whenever it’s my brother’s
turn to pray on dinner
he asks God to bless us
that we’ll get a lot done

with our precious time.
Then he goes downstairs
to play his Xbox
soon as he’s done eating.

And I really,
really shouldn’t tell,
but I think I see God
high-fiving him on the way down.

An Ashtray

I am not an ashtray, said the
plant, whose pot and soil
always bore a little too much resemblance
for passing Parisians to consider the cry.

I am not an ashtray became its
form of hello in a city of
strict Metro schedules, but still
the cigarette butts fell

on a plant that was
never supposed to grow leaves where it did
and always supposed to grow them where it didn’t—
what a lifetime of feeding on dead embers will do.

Now, it wonders, if it will ever become hideous enough
to never be mistaken again—

I am not an ashtray
I am not an ashtray
I am not

home is a place for learning to kiss the moon

I wrote in a journal
I learned to swear
I fell in love

with first days of school
the sweaty bodies of mosh pits
unsanitary public bathrooms

I fell in love with a home

and each time I said
I wanted out
I fell a little harder

and I want out
and I’m falling a little harder

so run through all the wheat fields you please
hop every chain-link fence
live all the adventures of all the books;

and some quiet autumn when you return
the mountains will still be humming your name

like you never left at all.