Eric Tyler Benick

singularity in the back of the clown car.




It is someone’s job to make living into a product 

and to turn that product into a living.




None of my cynicism is peer-reviewed, so it’s been difficult 

to secure anything more than adjunct dissent.




My constituents hose me down against the train car 

A clean run of syntax. Deadlift of arbitrary mass. 

Midnight ideas of the Chicago Handshake.




Diurnal warbles of the odd, anonymous bird— 

French fries only taste like their consequence. 

At the philosophy luncheon, I am castigated

for begging the question about the potato salad.




It is someone’s job to make living into logic

Poetry