Tag Archives: Mitchell Angelo

Mitchell Angelo

Campfire Songs

Digestive space,

A reason to start numbering again. 

An overestimation of the pebbles, the piles.

I wish you could have seen it. The white belly

peppered with rot. The odd-cocked jaw of roadkill.

Must have miscounted the miles and ended up far 

from home. Bloated necked, white bulging. The boys

back home call that a shiner—it’s a pretty bad one. 

The road ripped through her skull like

spilled ink. Numeric space,

A reason to ingest again—

I wish you could have seen it. Splayed gentle, 

like mouths on a mirror. I’m probably 

lying, it’s easier this way. Twisting your skin

around your ankles. Bending the toenails blue.

I laid down next to the dead deer so she 

wouldn’t feel embarrassed


Mitchell Angelo is a senior creative writing major at Purchase College, and the Managing Editor of Gutter Mag. His microwave is haunted. His work has previously appeared in Gandy DancerPaintbucket.page, and The Westchester Review.

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Mitchell Angelo

Un-disorders

I tell you I love you because I am well adjusted. 

All the shouting is only planes overhead. I tell you 

I love you because I am well adjusted and not because. 

There is yellowcake in the cupboard. Remember the planes. 

There are mousetraps in the cupboard. I am well adjusted. 

Not because. Because. 

 

Mattress the dirt. Sift through the wet 

sky. Imagine rain and then not. Promise 

it’s only planes overhead. All the shouting is only yellow

cake. Adjusted. Who knows how many planes are left. 

There aren’t enough piles of dirt in the world to fill me. 

Don’t think about it. The dirt can be yellowcake. Don’t think 

about it. I tell you I love you because you cannot. 

I tell you I love you because I am well adjusted. 


Mitchell Angelo is a senior creative writing major at Purchase College, and the Managing Editor of Gutter Mag. His microwave is haunted. His work has previously appeared in Gandy Dancer, Paintbucket.page, and The Westchester Review.

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Mitchell Angelo

Escapism

Ten, maybe eleven, pigeons sit inside a crater in the Arizona flatland. Their

wings gently stretch the empty pocket walls, splitting seeds, the hock-joint-

ed boys club. A rabbit passes by and they screech before realizing it’s just a

man singing a song about one.

An orange ranch home south of the cavity claims to be an Andy Warhol

museum. The television loops a videotape of people trying on wigs. A greasy

tarantula holds my hand like a child and asks for a drink of water.

The shrine underneath the sink holds a candle inside a bucket. Hot light-

ning hits the roof and it all goes dark. Her rumble waves the room like a

wild white flag. The owner wasn’t home. I slept in his bed.

With no warning, the tenth pigeon explodes into a pile of feathers and

twigs. The remaining nine or ten pigeons take turns gnawing at his bones.

The savory beak. He is little more than a withered European mouth in the

dirt. How does that protest music go again?

The dusty Southwest rips through my window like a suicidal blue jay.

My plucky hands tremble, oily with bile. The window slams dark in shame. I

stretch myself flat against the spoiled carpet. It’ll be days before anyone

notices.


Mitchell Angelo is a creative writing major at SUNY Purchase College, and the managing editor of Gutter Mag. His work has previously appeared in Gandy Dancer, Paintbucket.page, and The Westchester Review. His microwave is haunted. 

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Mitchell Angelo

PASSING

From up your gullet crawls puberty’s

late bloom. A goose eats the letters in

your name like jelly beans. He hides inside

a pulped chamber, sleeps in the pits

and fissures. Hissing with all those

ugly teeth. Molars ripen next to

the carrots, julienned.

I sit on the subway neighboring possums.

They read newspapers and drink wet coffee.

One wears a jade necklace and pats his plump

middle. It’s embarrassing, really, finding him

wearing all that costume jewelry. Slimy-toed,

greasy-palmed, pale sprout. I carry a dagger in my red

backpack. I do not know the difference between us

at times. A coyote steps onto the train; a bright purple

fear pours across the platform. His abdomen

produces a hand and waves. I swallow it whole

like a real man.


Mitchell Angelo is a creative writing major at SUNY Purchase College, and the managing editor of Gutter Mag. His work has previously appeared in Gandy Dancer, Paintbucket.page, and The Westchester Review. His microwave is haunted.

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Mitchell Angelo

Pre-Operative

As feral as I feel I know I am docile. Pretty

boy. Honey blood. Let’s imagine I am

a raven: a creature winged and worth

writing about. Claim the aggressive and angular. Bury

ovarian in bloom. Pretty boy. Honey blood.

When I fall I will land crooked but I will still be

beautiful. Let’s imagine I am something softer.

Let’s imagine I am a story in which nobody

dies at the end. Let’s imagine I stain

this body in orchids.

Pretty boy. Honey blood. Faggot. Firecrackers. I

am going to need you to cover my ears.

When you say my name for the first time I

want it to scare lesser animals. Perform

predator. I will never die

but if I do remember me as a cowboy. Perform prey.

Your father will see me like he sees any other girl and I will let him. I am

not crying.

When I fall I will land crooked but I will still be beautiful.


Mitchell Angelo is a junior Creative Writing major at SUNY Purchase, with a focus in poetry and a minor in Theatre & Performance. His work covers topics like gender, the environment, and anything pancake shaped.

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Mitchell Angelo

Sonnet for a Cowboy

And I’ll carry you on my back to the water.

To frame your figure out West. Let’s promise not to

use that word anymore. Let’s promise not to touch

anymore. King of the plains. Of things that break,

bend. Play matador on the freeway. Strip like raw

hide. Prey or pray, both end in blood and saliva.

Arizona in June can make anything less

painful. I’ll scrub your mouth from the tailpipe. And I’ll

carry you on my back to the water.


Mitchell Angelo is a junior Creative Writing major at SUNY Purchase, with a focus in poetry and a minor in Theatre & Performance. His work covers topics like gender, the environment, and anything pancake shaped.

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Mitchell Angelo

Carnivores

Before there were men, there were hours

of limbs on linen and imaginary cherry-bombs.

Great marble bodies outstretched in heat. Orchids

tied to bed posts. I was the first infant with an appetite for rats.

A goat’s head hangs above my mattress. She wears a prayer over her horns.

I cannot name things I do not love

so she is only a goat. In my sleep I name her after myself. In my sleep

I am only a goat.

Before there were men there were moths. Before all this

Skin. Before there were words for things like this. This body.

A hideous carnation. A marriage of carnivores. Still flesh

cannot thrive without father, so in which organ shall we bury him?

Once I knew a river so shiny I grew gills.

Fish are filthy liars, and with all these bones

I’ll never swim. In my sleep I am only a fish. I’ll lie

so flat and so still on the water’s surface you’ll think me a lily pad.


Mitchell Angelo is a junior Creative Writing major at SUNY Purchase, with a focus in poetry and a minor in Theatre & Performance. His work covers topics like gender, the environment, and anything pancake shaped.

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Mitchell Angelo

A Girl’s Name

Bend—baffle the wings into shapes unclean. Marry the animals that do not caw; falcon. Perhaps eagle.

Kitchen table now. A man has your feathers for breakfast. Heirloom the estranged inching up of

thighs. Turn uncles to fruit juice. A knifed citrus lies in the sink and I will play possum licking rind to

rim. Offer seconds and or thirds. He only feeds you after he says he’s sorry. There is no slur like the

overripe. Pitted. Queer. Remove context and this can be about your stupid boyfriend. Remove

context and this body sings female. Remove Remove. I’ll They until I vomit in virgo. I’ll worm into

pinker

apples. I’ll bury my zodiac.


Mitchell Angelo is a junior Creative Writing major at SUNY Purchase, with a focus in poetry and a minor in Theatre & Performance. His work covers topics like gender, the environment, and anything pancake shaped.

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