Relapse — Quentin Clabwright

poetry ☆

poetry ☆

The streets from here to Tobacco Barn

are confusing, and most don’t have

sidewalks, and the few that do

also have gutters clogged

with plastic bags and

crushed packs of

Camel Crush.

I’m not even

sure if I’m going

the right way now,

or if I really want to

be going the right way.

I guess I don’t know much

of anything, but I feel like shit,

and in my mind a cigarette will

cure that. Problem with quitting

and starting back up? You’ve

got to seek it out. And even

if I make it to the Tobacco

Barn—and still feel like

shit enough to buy a

pack—I don’t have

a lighter with me

anymore. But I

will cross that

intersection

whenever

I finally

reach

it.

---

Quentin was born and raised in the Mormon glue trap most commonly referred to as "Utah," though he now resides in the burnt out hedonistic husk of Portland, OR. Most of his writing is an atom bomb caused by a chain reaction of trivial complaints building on trivial complaints, the catalyst to which is riding a bus or a train and staring transfixed as life passes by outside the windows.

When he's not writing, Quentin is reading the biggest high fantasy novels that can still feasibly be carried around in an ancient backpack without splitting the seams. Either that, or he's torturing future poets and writers by forcing them to consider comma usage and participial phrases.

So far, Quentin's work has appeared in journals such as SLCC's Folio, WSU's Metaphor, Tin Can Poetry, and Taj Mahal Review.