SAMUEL M. MOSS / SOME COLUMN POEMS

July 22, 2025 / Always Crashing

Due to their layout, these pieces are best viewed in landscape mode or on desktop.

Deer Grid, Beetle Grid

(V7)

 To come across     a youth burning 
aloeswood   within a budding grove
the           indole scent     the
galling grab           of chloride
 the corn                 had dried 
right  there on the          stalk
some cant          always  doubted
when we          taught that craft
   an under metric of sampled speech—   
in curried            monad breath

on burl,     on knotted cornflower
that keeps            my hand numb
can we make      or see the temple
whose serried       walls of angle
to not have a   word to one’s  own
that gall,               ineffable
a                   splenetic game
tarmac bound,       the brine bath
wisps of culture  in a coral brand

To come across    another language
caught within        its own lease
an outrage of the   mathless class
a keening                    bough
grabbed toward    that grassy spot
a dust   less          traveled by

I came across      a gold of night
in the breach of       Mosier town
no sprayer’s              cur   or
eye’s read gleaming   caught me in
its                        glimpse
one preens to be             stuck
in that       dirt-wet buried song
no moth of mind   nor gut of heart
no ember            roused to perl

Ah—                    lengua gash
I’ve heard               your leaf
resplendent             in the gap
monotreme  in       austral glance
the sleepwalker’s             rite

I came across  some   gutless deer
horn  caught   on     fence’s grid
it     died         head        up
  one  milked        eye       out    
the     flies’   drowned buzz
the        beetles’   con
 sung out,    unrequited

Living at the discount

(V3)

finngrisp      and kerrygold
caught         at half price
a dollar hearse      in heat
the knife      knuckles down
to take the             pint
on the errand  runner’s task
There is    another language
lain within         this one
of the          kobold’s kin
     the knife           knuckled     
as        a    grin gainer’s
wan   harem comes    lacking

There    is another language
sleeping within     this one
an      adder’s  down on the
errant       steeple    gain
eking out  a  seed’s glimpse
simple fare,  simple thought
on a night’s   midst the kin
kept sighing, the   set-fire
keening  hear  fume’s breath
askew

the       kobold       calls
 or cants what stream   dew’s 
chaff                usurper
There is   an  other   usury
within this              one
a dala horse    of the heart
and a layer of       ecstasy
a gleaning  of  barrow  buds
There is         none better
not within     this year nor
another

Call Sign Logic

(V2)

 To come across as call sign logic, as the measure of the star 
 Wound up in the adumbrate,                carceral atmosphere 
Whisper on the regent’s choice             and keep irregular
No, you know the way                  know the keel and crest
The owlist versions wide omened,             oh Mary, oh many

If ever I might lay on the ground,   splay myself atop a rock
  Then laugh,                                         I suppose  
  It never comes out right,           can’t you see? The vision  
the flanking, the titan,               the iris, an aggregate
Walking on the border of Wisconsin       where the wind howls
One could take a crayon to a Rothko ‘in the style of the day’

On winking, a sleep takes to heart,         utterly corporate
The air sign signals,                        the sirens sound
Willem at the heart’s clunk,            steeling itself sadly
So many tricks up the sleeve      but they all land with that
soft pattering sound,                 sound of heel upon knee

 Gasoline sigil cut under the sewer’s arm,           cut under 
the steak’s white moan.          To get a grip won’t harm you
 Greater things stay unknown, a night bent conversation on the 
air mat, saggy,               set up under some campus shadow
Faith abutted,                                      abandoned
I’ll bet picked apart too,      conversations that go nowhere

The daruma drank white wine in spades,   played knuckle games
in the shade of the summer shelter,         we all plucked up
knowingly, grateful,       longing for the whole thing to end
To think that so much could, in the end,  amount to so little
 Each one is a wander for the mind,            and considering 
that you’ve got the jist well,            you’ve got the jist
now get rid of it.

Samuel M. Moss lives in rural Cascadia. Recent work has been published in 3:AM Magazine, New World Writing, minor literature[s] and New Sinews among other venues. The Veldt Institute, his debut novel, will be published by Double Negative Press in the Fall of 2025. He runs ergot., a site for innovative horror. Find more at perfidiousscript.com and on Bluesky: @perfidiousscript.bsky.social.

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