Carson Pytell is a poet living in a small town outside Albany, NY. His work has appeared in numerous venues online and is currently available or forthcoming in print from such publications as Vita Brevis Press, The Virginia Normal, NoD Magazine, Blue Moon Lit & Art Review, Spank the Carp, Crack the Spine, Futures Trading, Down in the Dirt Magazine, Gideon Poetry Review, and Children, Churches & Daddies, among others. His debut collection, First-Year (Alien Buddha Press, 2020), is available on Amazon and his chapbook, Trails (Guerrilla Genesis Press, 2020), is in the works.
When he isn’t writing, reading, sleeping or picking the blues, Carson enjoys silent and foreign film, documentaries on fellow writers, the music of Townes Van Zandt, the art of Odilon Redon and the politics of absolutely no one.
Even Eve committed concupiscence, she had it too damn good in Eden. That's why Eden did the same every eve before being found, cold. She's warm now. As a massa damnata we might as well. Heavenward we'd have no reason to, but they really screwed us. Even so, I don't blame mom and dad, I love them. Now I can drink and smoke, eat lots and care little. I could muster good and pray and wait, but the apple didn't fall far from that sapient tree. I'm only as good as they made me.
It was the trunks which had charm, I could reach the caterpillars there. One summer there were so many you could hear them all chewing. As usual, I spent the days collecting and cataloging them before they turned into butterflies which, like treetops, are overrated.
I've seen them all, learned each episode, but keep watching it. There are other shows, newer and popular, but I like this one. When I turn it on I don't need a smoke or any company. More than all arms, it warms and unwinds like a Sunday. This is the show I need; edifying, intriguing, safe. And it's all on demand.