“Against the Night 1a” © Edward Michael Supranowicz


Nothing Scientific

granted safe passage from an unfortunate blackout
the little wheels on the bottom of my dresser drawer won’t stay on the
and no matter how seriously I take it, I can’t keep everything folded

shirts smothering socks and things that should be hung left crumpled,
chords lying on the floor, boxes, sketchbooks filled with crude drawings
of anatomy that I have constructed
nothing real, nothing scientific

banned books and banned substances litter the unconscious mind of
          everyone whoever
considered themself a thinker, at one point or another
only to be left with an unorganized dresser, a few dollars, and hours and
          hours of
futile work, offering them nothing more than survival

I dream of neater consumption. a tailor, a cobbler, a haberdasher.
think of a task and complete it
leave me out of your ethereal plans to dominate the subconscious
or take over the world,

or whatever

I don’t really want to hear about it
I want to eat a steak with asparagus
and not wonder what corner of the world
either of them came from

I want to organize my dresser, to think about the future
I want to be embroiled in the ultimate scandal, only to prove my innocence

safe passage to anything else
nothing real, nothing scientific

noise is ever present
therefore meaningless
counting down the days

Ravens croak loudly, perched on a fence in the park I cut through on my
          morning walk
The air is thick with fog

I was supposed to fly to California today
but things have changed
I think if I ever make it to California, I’m going to die there

Dreams or fantasies of being an autocrat have poisoned my mind
Drinking until my eyes droop with pisspoor intentions
Ruin, ruling, waking, sleeping, sweating
My pillow smells like nervousness

A call comes in from the Archduke—Nothing Real

But why?

It’s funny to think that there are cheap tuxedos

More of a Halloween costume than anything else.

Red shoes, red carpets, red candles with asymmetrical stalactites of wax
          forming on either side
of the cylindrical structure held up by a bronze stand
made by someone or rather something,
a mold, or a machine,
it’s impossible to know.

But it burns slowly and smells kind of good, or at the very least, familiar.

Every time I’ve made plans to go to California something bad has

I’m staying up all night, sweating, thinking about Winston Churchill and
          Mohammed Mosaddegh.
I’m thinking about old buildings, candles, thrones, and stalactites of
still trying to get the little wheels lined up

I’m screaming and no one is listening.

I think if I ever make it to California, I’m going to die there

I dream of a neater form of consumption, or at least different.
I think of a task and complete it
noise is omnipresent

leave me out of your ethereal plans to take over the world
so I can dream about it myself.

the air is thick with fog as I return to my apartment
nothing is real here, either
I have become preoccupied with a monomaniacal
obsession of meaning, as if I deserve anything more than confusion

I enter my bedroom with the intention of organizing my dresser, finally
only to be struck by a pile of clean clothes
and a sudden realization that I do not own one


Joe DeBritz is a poet and painter who lives and works in Asheville, North Carolina. He is originally from upstate New York, where he was encouraged to appreciate and participate in the arts by his mother who is also a painter and poet. DeBritz is a lover of the outdoors where he spends most of his time when he is not working, hiking and camping in the nearby Blue Ridge Mountains.

Edward Michael Supranowicz is the grandson of Irish and Russian/Ukrainian immigrants. He grew up on a small farm in Appalachia. He has a grad background in painting and printmaking. Some of his artwork has recently or will soon appear in Fish Food, Streetlight, Another Chicago Magazine, The Door Is A Jar, The Phoenix, and The Harvard Advocate. Edward is also a published poet who has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize multiple times