Trilobite is an arthropodologist's delight:
many bizarre creatures; no two alike.

six poems

Stacy Blint


In the wobbly space of

the way my body smells

ice clear Wisconsin air

see your breath

a purple goblin

a turquoise bike

a miniature American flag

Minnie Mouse

painted on a dead stump

tipped over lawn chairs

what might be

raspberry bushes

A napping dog

opens his eyes

Who’s allowed to have the mauve

was it oak

to say the world

lost its letters

Ravaging the end of this pandemic

the bigger better assumption

flooded in prismatic light




I hibernate like a bear

dreaming of sea turtles

kit houses

Come back into your toes


Actors that are Other Talent

I’m any case

The flowers speak passionately

from the kitchen table

about their time

beneath the earth

stems gluing away in water

On the wall

I’m the gallery

an oversized replica

of a folding measuring stick

painting on the collective edges

wood extending

an arm and leg below

At the opening someone moved it

tried to make it


It came off the wall

breaking where it was attached

During the lecture the distraught gallerist

came to me and whispered

‘is there an enraged man in the room’

Wearing a flowered orange sundress

I walked up Brady Street in the snow

to the intimate Italian place

wanting tiramisu

Instead I leave with two different colored boots

walking away

trying to read text messages

on the tips of my fingers

beneath my gloves

There’s almost always an enraged man in the room

whether or not there’s any rage

How do I translate


the end of birthdays

when breath continues

Go back to the book that says

vomit first

then make art

between moons and footsteps

Nice Toilet

Killing someone by shrinking them

turning them to dryer lint

stuffing them into a cigar box

and stabbing them repeatedly with a cheap ballpoint pen

while singing the Oscar Mayer bologna song

has to mean something right

Fuck that noise

Toy our invilement

You Tell Me

Good vibes here

if nowhere else

Window of tolerance

What cold power

an unrivaled deep state sleep

snoring its statement

How much butter would be needed

How much would it cost

To sculpt the word FAT

in balloon letters

and then pin a pastel floral pattern from the late 80s to it

Money makes it appear

As if the Page Didn’t Exist

I imagine everything healing


bomb craters

Beneath all the death and decay

a loamy nothing

in utero

In a room full of kittens and puppies

I want to see the machine

that purifies your blood

even if it’s boring

What if there were no goals

only dreams to reach into

the poem’s insistent allowing

When the body expands expands expands

beyond the world machine’s ability to contain it

What delight can be

dancing outside

Scorched earth maps a topography of the dead

the alphabet isn’t a clock or chronology

they still haven’t invented smell-o-vision

Here in the abiding canopy

of nighttime green

In ancient in ancient

Hazards to the blow the now

What do the Fabrics Say

The pray is out tasting the moonlight

on a pool float

looking like Nick Cave

Ask your father

on the hourly

Suspended on spongy peat

in a brick house

I lost half this poem

by deleting a text

on a different device

Best part

way the diorama

folds in on itself

hot glue lets go

piece parts

now shoppable again

fox skull painted bronze

porcelain lady legs

plaster teeth

plastic jewels

nylon flowers

bring these birds to my dream

how nice to drift

Fuck the hustle

let’s streak

Like salads

I keep liking things by accident


or stroking

streaking or stroking

spring has disappeared

winter boom

sublimates to summer

Is it even possible

to know shit from Shinola

feet fear feet feat

Like your face

the wood needs to be moisturized

even death

shouldn’t dry out too much