Apartment Poetry Quarterly

14A              14B              14C              14D              14E              14F


13D Daniel D'Angelo




This poem
is a poem
without a project 

Like those dreams
of you naked
in public 

Where to hide
where’s my underwear
can they see me 

This poem
is a poem
without a sponsor 

Like a refugee
we gawk at
on television 

How far the shore
where the patrols
when the rescue 

This poem
is a poem
without an identity 

Like a stray
along a fence line
before a storm 

When’s the next meal
where’s the next nap
that a friend or foe?






Ticonderoga “warrior” pencil
Veltin’s pilsner, product of Germany
Six by eleven hardbound black sketch pad
Mississippi river bend – barges, smoke
Blinding sun at dusk, dragon flies, lone man
Frolickers toss Frisbee, mosquito meal
Flowering hazelnut, piss place supreme
Folding chair for gramps, product of China
Cheery, chitter, chatter, tugboat horn blare
Foucault looking fellow, red shades, strumming
Young mom’s wooden beads, product of Tonga
Couple shuffling through tote, something lost, found
A fisherman – when not – a fisherman
Booties, of course, everywhere, urging on






Square 1, if you insist on knowing
has fucked squares 3, 6, and 14 

Square 2, not too hard to imagine
also fucked square 3, plus 5 and 9 

Square 8, according to square 13
will soon be fucking square 5 

Square 4 – who could have guessed it
took a hard pass on fucking square 1 

Square 5, we somehow know
fucked square 11 and 12 – at once 

Square 6, when factoring out variables
has fucked no square, but beware 

Square 7, you can’t not not tell us
hasn’t fucked square 2 

Square 8 (blacked out), I intuit (again)
is fucking square 10 (blacked out) 

Square 9, everybody knows
is bent on fucking square 4, after

Square 10, we can extrapolate
would un-fuck square 13, if possible 

Square 11, according to the algorithm
might well fuck square 6, and soon 

Square 12 (in speaker mode) drops a hint
it fucked square 7 (on mute) 

Square 13 (the host) just won’t tell
if square 5 might fuck me, oh well 

Square 14, we’ve come to a consensus
has been fucking itself, poker faced






She was sorta in school, sorta living at home
sorta making money, sorta dating 

Sorta scribbling things 

One day, she declared herself a general 

The campaign required a van, a Gulf Coast interstate
a thousand dollars a month (every month)
a bundle of twenty books (two of them, notebooks)
a slew of talkative strangers 

serene moonlight 

rye whiskey