By Johnny Cate

Featured Art: “Choreographic Translation,” black and white scan of choreographic
notation encapsulated in hand-made paper, by Zelda Thayer-Hansen

    Post-punk November puts on
  her black lipstick in the year’s mirror.
Eye shadow and zygomatic rouge

    give time that Bauhaus cool: we’ve all
  got it coming—who cares?
Death’s inevitability

    means as much to me
  as the bone-dry bottle of pinot noir
I drained solo under the blood moon—

    gonna die and soon, soon.
  So what? You won’t see me cry.
I’m deep six, baby—crystal-iris wastoid

    in a white feather bed, voices in my head,
  yeah, born doomed but it’s no
business of mine. I’m

    drawing the blinds,
  thinking about a girl in leather,
last name Jett slash first name Joan—

    throw out your lame zodiac, loser,
  and repeat after me: I don’t give a damn
’bout my bad reputation.

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Johnny cate is a poet, copywriter, and vintage T-shirt collector from Asheville, NC.