hard to predict which way
the world’s wind tunnels—

already turbulent
amidst the thunder

spin trapped inside those
thoughtless holes

people are molded
and the science grabs

you. Though poorly
behaved and digested

the direction is torture.
we offer vorticies of air

from our holes
and surf silently

around the turbulence
of others.


A curling smile slammed against a coffee mug
the chatter of cellphones and their occupants,
the panic of voices dropped into toilets—
splash, splash, gurgle, and plotz
a wheaty sunrise—storms crouched
and within striking distance—
snow within striking distance—
fire within striking—

Trains upended. Harried shoppers
in the shelter of parking garages—
signals lost. The universe is a
goddam big mess. Cicadas
itching in the grass. Bugfuck
summer reaching solar maximum
curtains of rain all the way home.


I hate the image that lingers—
a moon colored like the bottom
of a good glass of liquor,
heavy and solvent, bowed
to froth. I come up a hill to
see it. I come down a hill
to go home.


The fingers draw a map
it curlicues
and crushes a soul.
Someone grabs it
and pantomimes experience
walks greedily through city parks.
The snap of hand is combustive
like strike anywhere…
Tap-tap-tap—
Some characters gain experience,
others shoot their heels.
If you can sleep in earthquakes,
and swamp through floods—
such standards and pressures,
the aspect ratio of human—maybe
you could prove,
relax the height
and pull out the missing letter:
“Lost, but looks civilized.”


Fear is walking through
public organs
the foot song
or sprained
acapella—

You lost your keys
to the diamonds—
patting a jagged ground
painting the rocks red

That place
you were going
is just as invented
as your path getting there


Chance Dibben is a writer, performer, and photographer living in Lawrence, KS. He attended the University of Kansas, where he received his BA in English. His writing has appeared in the The Pitch, Lawrence.com, Kiosk, and others.