The Glacier
Issue One
Fall 2022

Dear DuPont

Recently the compulsion
to announce to my partner
I'm not a very bright human
is becoming a point of contention. 

I didn't used to do this 
& I suspect you're to blame. 
& we all know Milo went to college
& works for you now 
but you also totally poisoned my water supply
& the water supply of oodles of others.  

You massacred much needed brain cells
& we wish to have them back
& we can't have them back 
so we demand a check 
for the full amount of your worth 
made out to the whole world. 
I'm sure Milo can get another job 
& I know this isn't proper compensation 
but maybe the whole world could buy a flamethrower
powerful enough to make you stop 
or maybe just consider the lives you've fucked. 

& I know this is yet another example
of my ass not being too bright, 
believing your empathy's a possibility. 

& that's fine. 

I'm still willing to meet you
one eightieth of the way 
at Citizens United. 

If companies are people too
then companies are Ian Brady 
& companies are Myra Hindley. 

Companies are behind me in the mirror.

Parallel Parking on Cracked Front Porch Featuring Dried Ruminant Hair

After uncle Bob called from prison
I wasn't the same human
just as I'm not, right now,
the same human who began this poem.

His sentence was light 
for someone who's used to that crap
but was an eternity for a child 
who's used to abuse
from nuns & priests & threats 
of permanent damnation & being paraded
into a large dooming room 
& watching adults gayly reenact 
the homoerotic torture of some guy
who was just trying to be nice. 

The setup was so awkward. 

Every breath being a sin, 
my brain began to revolt 
in the direction of my body
or vice versa. I don't know. 
My psychiatrist & I, 
before his retirement, 
really failed to nail it.

Footnotes of a One Star Formula

1. The critics revile the teens
‘cause the teens are too aware
of the blood in their wrists.

2. Must be so weird
to adore your life
like when somebody
such as yourself dies
internally it might be all
Well, Holy hell! Can’t believe
things is coming to an end!
The summer property
in Fletcher won't tend to itself, ya know!
Maybe the Godfreys will take care of it.
Instead of About time.
This carousel was complete crap!
Neighbors are putting up Christmas
fairy lights they’ll regret after a week,
meanwhile this Arby’s is ablaze.
The children will hunger. 

3. I could be mistaken
but wasn’t that your leopard 
print hoodie I saw 
cropped out of these obit
tribute vids featuring midi piano
& fake candle background?
Who am I to breathe?
To even wanna? Who am I, 
the bad art friend?
If we were friends I'd be willing
to be the bad art friend. 
We’re the same energy
but that's about all. 
I don't judge except when I judge.
Scruples: get fucked,
there's no time for reconciliation.

4. Like Laura Jane,
I could search
for onetime clarity
abandoned alongside ambition
but clarity is a drug
not worth risking
the dumb presence
of fentanyl & evil tires
can prevent you
from getting your doctorate
in oceanography or anything else
so why abstain
from these visions?

5. Companions got you dour?
Try blurring the barriers
between being
& simply suckling
the sour juice of our heritage. 

6. This technology says 
vulnerary isn’t even a word. 
But, like Kaczynski, I sing
screw this technology, 
screw every Robohorse
in the whole bosky world.
To remain a part of it
would be impossible
if the latter continues
to thrive in the face
of these sincere tears.

7. Anthologies strain the brain
as does all drinking water 
surrounding Louisville. 

8. This connection is not private. 
Ever have a burning face?
Public’s got no use for’em 
but I do. Ya know I steals 
so I can feels is my favorite mantra 
in this tired land.
Other methods attempted
include being yelled at 
by strangers over Skype,
being stomped on by strangers 
for a high price, punching 
stretch marks after work,
tracing the same 
with a butter knife,
you get the joke. 
I have not been kind
to this body 
this lifetime. 
In the next I could become 
a real peach of an outcome 
or even the end 
of some romance
in desperate need
of parental advisory.

Sunshine Is Our Latest Model of The Week

Pierre Guyotat has died! 
Often imposter syndrome 
prevents an exclamation 
but the night he did
I felt his rhythm
during all 24 Domino’s deliveries
made in lame attempts 
toward even lamer survival. 
His fingers must’ve been 
the ones who turned on 
my emergency heat.
I forgive him 
for he knows not
that will double a utility bill. 
His fingers instead
should have beaten 
right in the surgery. 
Did you want to lick it, 
my surgery? 
I didn’t think so. 
Did you want to hear
about last summer’s hypothermia? 
The deceased fling? 
The sheltered lifestyle? 
Of course not. You’re here
to hear about free cocktails
& summer soirees for young professionals. 
Sorry we didn’t put out any carcass this year. 
We thought maybe you were tired of being catered toward. 
We figured maybe, for once, you had someone else to love you 
& buy or gather or steal all that carcass for your gorgeous consumption. 
If you really need carcass so bad you can always walk to town in the dark.
We’re all supposedly free here. We’re all networking & drugged. 
No one will stop you but the cars or the ghouls.

JOSEPH GOOSEY lives in North Carolina. Recent poems have shown up in Peach Mag, Annulet Poetics Journal, Cul-de-sac of Blood, and Banshee. He is the author of a chapbook, STUPID ACHE (Greybook Press, 2013) and one full length collection, Parade Of Malfeasance (EMP Books, 2020).

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