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The freezing rain on the rooftop thumps like
“Rhythm Devils” off of Dead Set. All these

conversations buzz like “Space;” they’re completely
aimless. The ticket is a stainless steel safety

pin. It’s a performance, it’s supposed to be
painless, but these kids are all clustered up

snowflakes and I’m fidgeting. They’re all art
school freshman cool and I’ve got bills each month

I need to pay. They’re saying: “Katie was
a queer, OK?” I text Danni: “you don’t

know what yer missing.” Frances sounds deranged.
Still, she’s got two Asian boys singing up

in her range. I’m snuffing out time at the
back of the line; I can’t even see the

merch display. I’m wishing for a change. I’m
willing these sleet filled Baltimore streets away.

My phone buzzes in my pocket (“Friend of
the Devil”). I don’t know what I’m missing.




I moved away from Phoenix to somewhere that precipitates. That inspired the first line. Everything else followed. Everything written is true (except the words chosen exclusively for their sound)(and the parts that I made up to make the truth sound better)



Matthew Bisenius is a poet and a musician. As a postrealism poet, he often confuses cinematic allusions for punchlines. His writings have been published on and in previous issues of Four Chambers. He currently manages title work for large fleets and he is looking for a full time drummer in Maryland

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