feat. bb, Ben Buckingham, Lyla Rowen, and Robert Torres


Dear deadly clones or sheep or people, 

The poets sit in a circle. Each poet writes on a small piece of paper who or what they would most like to clone. One poet, acting as God, extends a hand to collect and hold onto the beings to be cloned. Before drawing from God’s hand, the poets ruminate internally repeating the word “accident,” and when they draw they do not look at the word but take it, hold it in their hands and wait. As you hold your word, hold it hard, let your hand go sore. Continue repeating your mantra internally until you are pointed at. When God’s finger points at you—not the poet to your right, not the poet to your left, but you—lock eyes with God. Pointing, God will proclaim “SHEEP,” and your inner word will change—whatever word you first associate with “SHEEP” replaces your first mantra, replaces “accident.”  You may now begin the cloning process. Write your pome.



I don’t remember why I first decided to shave myself, though I’ve always had a lot of hair. Surprisingly, sweaters made of my hair sold well. Or not surprisingly. Feel! [extend arm] This hair is fine. So soft. So clean. Cloning myself for parts, I felt mischievous. There were teams shaving the many parts of me around the clock. Factories of my dark black hair knit! Knit! The foreman cried to the sound of the beating drum we employed to keep them in time. My god, what a great warmth we found.

—Ben Buckingham


Idris Elba, and also Sheep

A noble army born

Of ignoble deed. A king

Came to free them from

Their proverbial and

Provincial imprisonment.

With thrusting and

With seed he founded

A line of noble warriors,

Profiles shirking black

Wool unshearable

By sword or scissor,

They roam the island

Growing up the land

Once reserved to the

Old kings.

—Robert Torres



My clone and I don’t hold hands anymore.

I wanted to see myself outside of a mirror.

My clone and I quickly fell into dependency.

He lay dying in his bed.

Wrapping ourselves in one wool blanket,

We counted one, two, three,

Until four sheep,

I was left counting alone.



Greener Pastures

In a stained wool sack—

My rough mind is over

Chaos’s cruel orbit.

Counting to fall asleep.

Fluffy white sheep.

Among unsullied soil.

Palest lightning in a breeze.

Warm soft landscape

And its pleasant secret.

Among limitless security,

Without the toll of fantasy.

The sheep never get sick.

—Lyla Rowen

Categories Pome

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this:
search previous next tag category expand menu location phone mail time cart zoom edit close