Mike Luz

Mike Luz is a poet and musician living in Brooklyn, NY. Mike has published an experimental volume of poems, “Ages of Suits by Sam Casino,” and has work forthcoming in Outlook Springs. In early 2016, he released an album recorded with Martin Bisi at BC Studios under the name Mercy Wizard.



My Enemies


They crowd me

like dust, eat flowers

ride bikes. Laugh loud

enough to be deaf.

Their meals arrive

one by one,

one missing. Blaming

me, they order butter


no butter. I’m no fool:

no butter sandwich

with no butter

is a butter

sandwich. They ask me:

have you had

a butter sandwich?

No, I say. Well

there’s none better

without butter, they insist

and laugh. These guys

are my enemies–

chew my food,

hang each other

by rope, and I think

they achieved

some form of life here

in the apartment.

Needing space,

I leave the cabin

hoping death stops by

on his way to sleep,

stubs his toe

on a milk jug

some enemy empties

on his corn flakes.

Really I have nothing

but at least

I have enemies.



Wake Up


A record shop

closed its doors

like a coffin lid

stars die

in their sleep


the end repeats

time is

and is not a virus

speech is

and is not powerless

in this regard

having nothing to do

most mornings

I sit at a computer

buy shit: vitamin-rich

chains of meaning

attach themselves

to a neckbone

addict of excess

‘the song is true’

to spin Creeley

from blindness

refers to respected writers

lets people know

remembering is work

that ‘design makes us human’

to say nothing of the artist

whose art is neither

the turntable or

the phonograph

invented in 1877

I was born in 1984

music played on records

vinyl is petroleum is dinosaurs

extinct like 66 million

years ago

and when they were born

what music

if math is to be trusted

needles motionless

tables turn

in both directions

bleating some future

being’s reason

for being

some other future

the fact is

it all ends like this

everyone you know

one day appears


wanting out

knowing out

is back in



It Says What You Say It Means


Blood pools

like oil spill on pavement

hurt can be invisible

the pain one feels

to hide

dragging bones

an avoidance of life



God named it


the sheer weight of it

twisted brains

to accept a thing

as it wounds

discovering itself

in fingertips

the glow of a faint spot

meaning there’s light

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