By Chase Spruiell


I look a dog dead in the eye.
He squeaks. 
He squirms. 
But he stays where he is.
Like the infantry. 
Like the front line. 
Stupid, a follower. 
Frozen, unable to think
or move. 
Instinctually stuck.
An empty sack of fur.
He knows what I know.
This is no showdown. 
I walk away. 

what cleans vomit

time silhouetted by strangers.
bus drivers, college students, valet kids, dying musicians.
I don’t know any of them.
clerks, postal workers, mothers, suicide failures.
the humidity rises past 75%.
a dog can’t find his way home.
paleontologists, professors, rapists, homeowners.
a group of crusty buskers put a leash on a dog and walk it to New Orleans.
board game enthusiasts, simple prostitutes, dirty cops.
the street lights get dimmer or my eyesight worsens. 
an unceasing pile of flesh flooding the avenues.
garbage men, florists, anemics, addicts, priests. 
they’re all so strange to me. 
the tube attached to a gas pump nozzle becomes unhinged 
it falls on me completely
gas rains down, into my hair and eyes.
the gas station clerk as baffled as I am.
bartenders, ugly men with handsome bank accounts, children grown cynical, hideous presidential candidates. 
clubs erupt with laughter and violence.
the cleaning crew comes to sweep away the vomit. 
make way for the next one. 
digits dump down from billboards.
a baby is born in an abandoned warehouse. 
a woman smiles at me. 
a beautiful woman.
she walks along. 
I daydream of being inside her,
both my god and devil storming inside. 
all of these strange faces.
multiplying into history. 
a fly is pinned to a spiders web.
a homeless woman dies.
the sun comes up.

dead bunny rabbit

drinking into the morning:
the ambulance will be moving traffic
someday for me

the air conditioner doesn’t cool the air
like it used to
this apartment is twice as old
as its dust

when the roaches come out to eat
I don’t even flinch
towards the roach spray or to anything:

I just gaze.

there are a lot of people       I would say most
who let the moon retrieve their dreams
upon its arrival:

I prefer the sun.

the morning light comes in softer this way
it puts me to sleep

it predicts that I will waste the day:
that doesn’t hurt me
like it used to

the summer is hot but
I am a lucky man:
I own two fans that
work perfectly

I’m renting the one on the ceiling…

            there isn’t enough time for pauses

            that’s what my father used to say

the internet grips the soul
it churns out butter
for grubby hands
with infinite fictional wisdom

I have yet to confirm the ethical dilemma that the internet presents:
though you and I never will

that’s okay
because tonight:
I outlived the rum and the pills.
the night is still and quiet like
a newly dead bunny rabbit.

my father never said the bit about pauses

that was me:
I made it up.

long live the existential crisis.



give yourself to god
the head of the auction block 
luck’s puppeteer 
the Black Death 
the sun and the moon at night 
the cop, the thief & the victim 
the blood on your hands in a dream
the universe
give yourself to Him
I’ve heard it all
it crawls all over me
but I give myself to other things:
flesh, synapses, dead cells
the function of god is the strongest myth
I make God in a cup:
whiskey, ice, simple syrup, bitters, orange peel,
and the miracle maraschino cherry
I can taste the faith
my God tastes merciful
and sweet


scared to death
scared to live
remove the sheets
pour coffee
let it breathe
tv turn it on
what is the heart
be careful
sun scarred
one of the
Texas hunted
born to be one
sun take me down
fear not what
comes in the
fan turn it on
don’t forget
the lungs
hold tight
the moon
is coming

About the Author:


Chase Spruiell was born in Denton, Texas. He spent the majority of the time in his life playing basketball, earning a full athletic scholarship at St. Edward’s University. He has a bachelor’s degree in Mass Communications with a specialty in Digital Cinema and currently resides in Austin, Texas where he writes music for various projects.