Sam Herschel Wein lives in Chicago and specializes in aimless frolicking. His chapbook, Fruit Mansion (Split Lip Press, 2017) was the winner of the 2016 Turnbuckle Chapbook prize. He is the poetry editor for The Blueshift Journal, and runs a new journal, Underblong, with his best friend, Chen Chen. Recent work can be found in Vinyl Poetry, Mojo, and Connotation Press, among others.
Sam Herschel Wein
All My Friends Are Dead: Non-Dinosaur Version
all my friends are guavas, succulent and sweet.
all my friends are socialist nerds, spooning each
other the seeds of long cucumbers
none of my friends happy to sell their labor for
some wealthy man’s profit
my friends, all are my dying, not dead, limbo dog,
jungle gym, monkey bars lower beneath
the ball pit
friends are all suicide ideation, 2AM ambulance
calls, 11:30AM repeated talks with poison control,
will they live? will they alive? will they a living? will
I take my phone? cuz I’m in a meeting til 4
all my friends spit watermelon seeds so far I swear
I thought this place would setup some competition
for them
all hate winning, my friends, tired of supposed
competition, of systems that want only one of us
to succeed, like we can’t all rise from the defunct
fountain and swirl in turquoise wonder shooting
all the way to the sky
all my friends are. my are. friend oars. rowing me
afloat. my friends glide, still breathing. plump,
pump breathing
some of my friends are dead. my friends, the reason
I’m still breathing. my friends, we answer each other’s
phone hearts. we pound stomachs we pump adrenaline
we stack toiletries we stock old gin passed through
each other’s freezers we rock the beat to death we
rock each other to sleep
all my friends are still here with me in my sheets.
my friends, all tell me to do laundry but I refuse
to let go of their smell
Glass: A Journal of Poetry is published monthly by Glass Poetry Press.
All contents © the author.