Poetry by Nate Maxson

Year 2

Eventually dead horses line the street
Like anthills
Acrawl in infrared bacteria
In a black and white photograph
Held up with subtle puppet strings
Somewhere east
Mountains of sunny flesh press against the camera lens
Excrement of the engine
Satellite to the main event
Oh so amused
Gathering speed: the riders immaculate


In The Labyrinth
On my level of the labyrinth/ spiraling wings out sterilized like a rose: in my bright penthouse the party is over
It was over before I arrived/ kaput, the mirrorless inhalation of wind gnawing on these perfect stones
Only ashtrays from the years when it was couth to smoke indoors and from when I set fire to furniture before I adapted to the cold
There are no windows, only the curvature of bareness: mine and this place
On my floor of this assumed structure/ windowless, permutations of phantom limb sensation
The smell of roasting meat, only the smell
But you never go hungry
Curious though
I put my ear to the cool floor several times a day, imagine I am a truffle hunting pig
Down below
A vibration, waltzed sonar stompage/ this is where I will go, an appendage in the eventual
Further escapes or the swaying of unmeasured height?
Daisy stalk, concrete and suggestion
The riddle of what you are in dreams, against déjà vu and hummingbirds
How many, how many/ pulse nude on a hard surface, reduced to observation
Someone below is still dancing down to the nub of their iron soles


What It’s Not
It’s not death I’m afraid of
It’s forgetting
It’s the fade
The escape
How easy it seems

Remember this:
The curvature of Samantha’s teeth
The way my skin would prickle from the chlorine after getting out of a swimming pool
What we have left
What wounds we keep open
How simple


Nate Maxson is a writer and performance artist living in Santa Fe, New Mexico.