Peter Cole Friedman


Don’t need imperatives, it all happens.  Open cabin

door view. Most beautiful thing for a second. And

then the sad piggy bank mogul fracks his own

pastures. The frog slaps his tongue. How some

people use heaven. Should I be building a fort?

Flights of stairs come to mind, as do gifts gifted me

you’ve kindly held and forgotten to return. Each

headlight was a kind of deer. Where’s your ‘I’m fifty

percent water’ when you’re alone in a desert?

Condensation on my rearview again. I say my but

it’s a borrowed car, a hired driver. Show me a love

note that wasn’t overdue. A face that hasn’t lost all

disparity in passing. I believe in you.



Donovan record in the Poconos. Old ponchos.

That’s the kind of dust I mean. The higher ups just

fluffing the Pomeranian, while the kids mince the

lice, trace lineages into dusk. Litmus test in the

pool. Plastic daisies bobbing on a sill. Swallows on a

barge. Giving back to the continuity. The low-res

degree behind you now. $9/hr to start but a total

sucker for anything resembling memory, loss,

despair—any of those gross abstractions beneath

which human ache amounts to such recurring

concussion symptoms I can practically put

asymptotes where your head hurts hard. That’s the

sexiest I’ve felt all year.



Peter Cole Friedman is a writer and preschool teacher living in Brooklyn, NY. Recent work has appeared in Deluge and the Brooklyn Poets Anthology (Brooklyn Arts Press). He co-edits the virtual literary and arts platform glitterMOB. Follow him on Instagram at @petecolerfriedman.
Mark Cugini