Site icon

Eric Tyler Benick

from “fox hunts”


somewhere hidden on the high line

fox has weaponized pastiche

like an x-man or john cassavetes

and can harness the red light of a summer squall

fox possesses the great animal genius

the flemish painters sought in slaughter

everyone knows a fox

in new york is a bad idea

and none more so than fox

who’s gone transcendental among the tulips

resplendent in his raiment of rain

conducting sorrows and shadows

like a lotus of bodhisattva

the wet wind off the hudson

making maelstrom of manhattan litter

fox is a fixed object

stripped like an orange

as an answer to the rain


from “vole clock”


quietly coughing thunder
braised the air of alabama
as the bronze effigy was pulled
from the public square
like a rotten tooth
the third in its likeness
a hat trick of justice
albeit retroactive
vole is a tender artichoke
bleary below a buick
from a bad season’s nap
but fistbumps the air
in celebration hoping
there will be a party
which is a pity
no one gave him the news

we don’t party anymore


from “mothman retrograde”


everyone’s favorite porcine capsule

unctuous mothman takes the wheel

with all their vitamin strength

eyes inert like miami neon

hungry for the insurrection

their dreams black as goyas

a ballroom of billionaires hang

from their own balustrade

and sway in nocturnes

mothman so horny for revolution

they’re nearly inept but who else

to reverse the tidal swells

the curse of federal negligence

these odious engravings of men

on mountains each world

more onerous than the one it survives

and mothman’s seen them all

both as fact and phantasm

every single soldier of art killed

or subdued basquiat became a glove

of money and bob dylan peeled back

his amphibian skin and what happened

to lil kim who could have castrated

an army with her cadence

loaded on long island iced tea

mothman has lost all practical function

and clings to a few explosive frames

of diegetic action because like keanu reeves

mothman is immortal and can leave the sequence

from points a and b to special effects and bad writing

still greased up from the barbecue and blissfully sunk

by benzodiazepine the night is a cherry in their jowl

the rich lights of the art basel soon to be subsumed

by the solid fats of a forced animal



ERIC TYLER BENICK is a writer, publisher, and educator living in Brooklyn, NY. He is the author of the chapbooks Farce Poetica (Spiral Editions, 2022), I Don’t Know What an Oboe Can Do (No Rest Press, 2020), and The George Oppen Memorial BBQ (The Operating System, 2019), as well as a co-founding editor of Ursus Americanus Press, a chapbook publisher. More recent work has appeared or is forthcoming in Bennington Review, Copper Nickel, The Harvard Advocate, Meridian, Southeast Review, and elsewhere. His debut collection of poems, the fox hunts, is forthcoming from Beautiful Days Press.

Exit mobile version