Ellen Welcker

ellenwelcker, you have no events scheduled today



ellenwelcker, you have no events scheduled today.


ellenwelcker, you have plenty of time

to have neoplastic dreams, ellenwelcker.


click on five signs

you will get cancer


think slick thoughts

about confession, ellen


like, if you can give me

like me, if you can


mammalian heat & a slick thought

a blind hopping or slipping


like can you give an evasive one

this might be the ticket, and tenderer


ellenwelcker, possibly

you are some percentage red #5


possibly you strain to separate your you

from the super, mega, googly-store


brim to brim with the bad-bad, & sad sad-

ness is a radial emotion echolocating


big ass pile of laundry blocking my sun

can you give an evasive one


can you closetalk in small spaces,

intimate, soft spaces


palpate softly your tumors

& yous


a poet is like a bat

intertextual & cavey


& nothing, I mean no percentage

learning to “cope”


It’s going to take forever—the rest of our lives, one after another

global catastrophe & I’m embarrassed to say in some ways it will be a

relief: just end it already, & let the future critters take their wet

breaths. The seabird autopsies kill me. I mean they kill everyone—I

had vowed to stop saying that things kill me after D asked me if I

would kill so-and-so if they did such-and-such minor thing. I can’t

even remember & it’s about killing for godssake. Lately

she says to me:




in a whispery, sinister voice

& it chills me, Jesus Christ it chills me. I ask her, what is a weapon &

she replies it is something that flies through the air, my friends play it

at school:




I’m not one I create

what nature does better—evolve or metastasize to block the sun, that

thing, that thing—that toothless teratoma ellenwelcker, that hairball

in the drain, ellenwelcker, that three year-old is an intertextual act of

radical social actionshe’s politeness theoryshe’s a bat poet

she’s lonelyshe’s a few feet awayfloatingin a seaof plastic

debris with a blowhole big enough for a baby to crawl through. O, to

throw out your nasty ole ratty ass sweatpants & have a whale swallow

them, now this makes me want to die

You Find Yourself Saying Any Number Of Things



for a bat, to cope

is to die


ellenwelcker moldynose poisonbody


I die & die & die


& I find myself

saying any number of things:


“The weather

is unlike itself.”


“So help me, I won’t be joining TEAM SUNNYBUNZ.”


“It’s only the second day of the year

& already

I’m eating hot dog buns

for breakfast.”

Like any document





the hopeless navel dreams of a cord, rememberless. Just a relic, a scar, all

scrunched up and twisty looking or flaccid & droopy-dog, the

protrusion-formerly-known-as-a-divot all slackjawed & pokey & goddamn my

clothes look weird.




there was a country

they were just in the habit of it

in the country guns were like singing

the children busy picking up bad habits

the children


in their small armies, highly attuned

to the presence of weaponry

children had become

like bomb-sniffing dogs




I entered a city that bloomed

like carrion, caught with red night eyes

the everyones:  I get so lonely, coo coo

tap tap tapping like ants

on the pavement, a language

made of business—who, who




ellenwelckercry dinosaur tears

tar-black & gut-deep, big baby—

cry shapeshift me, shipshape

this lifeless dust + dust & hydraulics

apocalypse v just before it




sweet thing:

if strawberries

hurt your feelings

it could be

you’re even

more sensitive

than me




the sad epitaph

we all share




snobbish feelings

toward euphemism




I will hold you

like a syndrome

a multiplicity

of arms

that melt

‘til there’s nothing


but goo


ELLEN WELCKER has poems collected in the chapbooks Mouth That Tastes of Gasoline, (alice blue, 2014), The Urban Lightwing Professionals (H_NGM_N, 2011), as well as a full-length book, The Botanical Garden (astrophil press, 2010). She lives Spokane, WA, & curates SpoPo, a living room poetry series.