chairs are publicly accepted skeletons, this being more evident when they are paint-peeling white. At best they are architecturally concealed plates for the ass and genitals. Like horses, we dispose of them if they have even one fractured leg. They are the unsung heroes of any meeting or gathering. Skyscrapers as compared to toilet seats. Secretly, they are wombs made of plastic, metal, wood.

in official places, such as work or school, they are sundials of spite. As despised as the executioner's black hood, clocks' faces in these aforementioned places are as anonymous as the evil eye, which they give us and we so willingly return. At home they are punctual helpers in the service of favorite recipes, schedules, and for those so obsessed, intervals between love making. They are as appreciated as soap, cursed at when their batteries die and they are subject to torture when they sing their one prompted, faithful note.

soap is a prowler in some of the innermost crevices of the body. It itself is readily molested, inadvertently dropped, lost down the drain, thrown away when it reaches its old age (also its infancy) and praised only in the realm of deleterious camping trips.

identity photographS

are a type of clerical pornography. They prove that the body can be, at times, absent of its soul. They are "likenesses" classified as such by only those who do not know you. They are taken on occasions that never require a smile. Avoid being buried in Europe because, there, they will, engraved in stone, put one on your grave.


loaves of bread are masters of concealment; they wear little-tested raincoats but are the opposite– both sponge and pussycat– on the inside. Ambivalent if bought or not, if eaten at a meal or made into meal for ducks, they're contemplative as stones. They appear in the disguises of ripe cotton, masses of household lint, unfluffed pillows, and, humbly, brand new (gigantic) poop.


are the worse paid of civil servants. Usually prompt to begin work, they spend their off-time on the job. Only in fog are they lauded as romantic. Adorned with seagulls or a new coat of tar, they hum to themselves an electric lifting melody.

curious mirrors they are. Seashells that drift upon the beach of our toes. What we ever needed them for no one really knows, but they are the most beautiful jewels we truly own and can easily change the color of.

a more unassuming occupation is nowhere known. The inventors of blackface, they are content with existing outside the limelight and, almost, in the lime. Essential for gourmets, they aren't as diabolical as their youth might imply. Full of sound and fury, they unwind meticulously as exempla of our shared future: (need it be said) ash.

the bacK
an unknown plateau, similar to the Arctic or Antarctic, having places unable to reach. A workhorse that is underfed, undercarressed, underpampered, concealed even in the nicest of climates. We take it for granted because it is as dependable as granite and is, unbeknownst to many, the most employed sexual organ.

tiny 20,000 leagues under the sea monsters. They are spiders, octopi, snakes, amateur lobsters all combined. Their eyes are black holes made into exemplary planets. Their meat is edible sex. Their antennae are the broom whiskers of Zen.

a game that requires, firstly, a total absence of fashion. After that, muscles long forgotten and hidden in the body are called on for the destruction of bone pyramids. Large scale boredom in action that can only lead to two routes: drunkenness or french fries.

Philip Kobylarz is a teacher and writer of fiction, poetry, book reviews, and essays. He has worked as a journalist and film critic for newspapers in Memphis, TN. His work appears in such publications as Paris Review, Poetry, and The Best American Poetry series. The author of a book of poems concerning life in the south of France, he has a collection of short fiction and a book-length essay forthcoming.