Ben Starr
That’s what Vogue is telling me. That’s what my astrologist is telling me. That’s what scientists are telling me. Cosmo just published a quiz about whether or not the Earth is into you and I filled it out and it is. The Earth is on a lot of drugs. The Earth needs a lot of drugs. The Earth was just spotted canoodling at Bar Lis with this year’s most eligible season, Fall. The Earth was just spotted stumbling out the side exit into a pocket of paparazzi, perfectly potted on espresso martinis and god-tier rails of uncut sulfur. The Earth has a new organic skin-care line. The Earth is not involved in any of the day-to-day managerial decisions but is willing to make two social media posts per week (#ad). The Earth is so hot it doesn’t have to pay for clothing from any of the retailers at Dover Street Market other than Rick Owens. The Earth is so hot its seas are boiling. The Earth is so hot its ice caps are literally melting. The Earth is so hot that once you and I and my daughters have had our skin cauterized until it bubbles up in chalky puddles of the blackest carbon, the Earth will still be hot enough to melt the man off the moon. To make distant stars pop like oil in a lit skillet. To make Orion himself eager to loosen his famous belt.
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Ben Starr studied poetry as part of the UCLA Extension Writers’ Program and is a reader for Dishsoap Quarterly. His work has been published or is forthcoming in Bending Genres, Bruiser Mag, HAD, Maudlin House, Gone Lawn, Scaffold, and other journals. Find more of his work at benstarrwrites.com.