Benjamin C. Krause has consorted with hippies in Goa, chatted with call center cubicle workers in Bengaluru, and been thrown out of a discotheque in Puducherry. He speaks enough Kannada to buy ten packets of gutkha, a pack of Classics, or one of three types of paan. He’s been published in Boston Literary Magazine, Calliope Nerve, Counterexample Poetics, Foundling Review, and Tipton Poetry Journal.
I’d been thinking about leaving. I’d been thinking how there’s something about out here. Before long it’s a new January and you’re hungover with a heartache for a man you won’t see for several years until he pops up on that very popular, critically-acclaimed sitcom with that actress you learned to like, then hate, then feign indifference abou
The leak in your breathing/ tube makes a cartoon squeak./ It takes two nurses, silent/ as nuns, to place you/ in my arms...
If I have already/ gone insane/ but I want to get/ crazier yet,/ what’s my move?/ Go outsane?
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