Poetry by Conley Lowrance

Art: Frances Ha


As though the fog was speaking in hushed tones—
as though I were chewing on fingers
or reading newspaper after newspaper,
chewing on illegible words that seemed to say Today

thousands of rodents descended on Astoria,
three thousand seven hundred mice, wild eyed,
three toed; two thousand and four toothless rats…

But it is morning so I drink coffee, clench my jaw;
somewhere, a bridge drifts in and out of view.
Look at my hands: no newspapers, no smudged ink…
But it is morning—my teeth are in my palms.



Bleecker Street running its fingers through
your hair. Oil is pooling on your tongue
& did you notice the wads of money
raining down outside? They’re burning

before they even hit the ground!
The fact of the matter is Bleecker Street
is so red & wet this week…listen:
I’m waiting in the same café—I’m not

sick & my lips aren’t dry. But I can’t get
my fingers out of my hair—I’m grinding
soap into my tongue. Singed dollar bills

& crumbs are scattered on the floor…
I’m alone right now—alone, but waiting.
Look outside: is it still red? still raining?

Conley Lowrance began writing poetry after an aborted career in punk rock. His interest in lyrics and subculture literature eventually led him to the University of Virginia’s poetry writing program where he received his BA in 2012. His poems have been published by Noble / Gas Qtrly, Uut Poetry, Columbia Journal, Underwater New York, and The Glasgow Review of Books, among others.
Currently, he is exploring the intersections of Surrealist poetry and detective fiction and is the Academic Advisor at NYU, The Institute of Fine Arts. He lives in Manhattan with his wife and cats. Follow him @ConleyLowrance.


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