'spit bubble rainbow'
by Dominic Gualco

we are birds before a hurricane
when the red sun is a god and i am something small
and beautiful in this strange moment
i touch your hair and everything is singular
how can you feel sad when there are so many
california avocados for us to eat
beneath the streetlights i want you to freestyle
in the shower every monday starting now
and sometimes throw your shampoo bottle
against the wall and say motherfucker
cause your mouth wants to remember
the shape it makes and that shape is a flatbed truck
but quit pretending like your heart is a broken down vw bus
because it isn’t
it’s an organ strong enough to choke you when you sleep
through the first planet of the apes movie
and how’d you even do that
there’s another universe to investigate there
and in the space between your knucklebones
and man
i fucking love it


Dominic Gualco called us from Colorado Springs, CO.
More about Dominic.


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you made me a natural disaster,
held hurricanes in your palms.
and breathed monsoons.

it’s okay. i don’t bruise easily.
i am survival kit.
i am 30 cases of bottled water.
box of matches.
sleeping bag.

the answer to someone else’s prayer.




i think in questions only but tonight i am holding your eardrum in my palm.
does it feel wrong? you gave it to me first.
plucked it right out of your head and said “here.”
you are always doing things like this, giving me parts of you
but somehow it still feels like stealing.
i am not a saturday thief.
i am not prison full of box cutters.
i am not the ties on the train tracks.

i am holding your eardrum in my palm and somehow
you’re still not listening.



seems funny:
almost everything
we know about science (read: life)
is at best a well-supported



your lips taste okay in the rain
better after
two and a half glasses of shitty wine

i can bottle this rain storm
harbor it in between my rib cage
pretend the electricity is conducted by your fingertips

it has been raining for sixteen hours straight
and dear god
i hope it never stops

7/30 (after Jon Sands)

if the tips of my fingers were the tines of a fork,
i would only eat the cherry tomatoes from my childhood garden,
in the house where the yard set on fire.

if my kneecaps were cymbals,
i would march around the corner of 52nd & Maple,
and only let the locals sleep at night.

if my ribcage was the lock on your bike,
i would spend my winter rusting away on your side porch.
in the spring, my ribs would give way to your prying.

if the nape of my neck was a brand-new book spine,
i’d crack once under the weight of hungry hands,
and never open up again.

if my palms were the morning barista in the worst cafe Downtown,
i’d still love the smell of coffee
and i’d still write shit poems.

if my heart was a West Omaha townhouse,
i’d be empty most of the time
and never leave the porch light on.

if my throat was the waxing crescent moon,
i would only speak in i love you’s
and breathe easier every time i went home.


i slept
through the bombshell
last night

you say
‘it is only self-defense.
what doesn’t

kill you
only makes you stronger.
believe me.’

i wonder
when it will all
end. soon?

you cut
clear lines of defense.
i surrender.


we met in february’s throat
i noticed your smile was always too big
i tried to trap it between fingers

i spent a month praying myself whole again
worshipped at my altar

only to find you back again,
in the last pew
tossing pebbles at my feet