Donald Food Revists the Canons of Spiritual Law by Christopher Schaeffer


O Thrice Great Hermes! The top

of your silver thigh is showing

beneath your escutcheon

becoming valueless, how sinister soever

the blots and clots upon them

but minions are floating

in your train unto the Chik-Fil-A.

Buddy let me love the assortment

of manifestations of spirit.

Let me buy you a coke.

This checked bit of cloth packs

a turbo secret and

variations on above theme.



Since when was this Macy’s

converted to The Hall of Invisible Forms

Made Visible By Human Art?

This bathroom has three antechambers

and the sinks don’t turn on.

I’m haunted as hell mate

and I’m exchanging this electric

griddle for another glorious artifice.

Nobody descends in order to buy a blender—

there’s a gnostic component

that demands a sort of material equity.

I’m dying in this heat in this sweater.

I’m across the parking lot in spirit

buying cranberry juice and vegan butter.

A form with a duty in the Macy’s basement

says Mister, how might I

Make You Glad? I want a coupon,

a value, a necktie, and a parhelion.

I want a pretzel burdened with investiture.

And I still want that blender.

The Auntie Anne’s upstairs

serves no grey poupon

(with which our transcontinental

readers may not be acquainted).



Clark Ashton Smith was not born

for living people to read.

Someone says: shall I read?

No. Not unless you live unto

200 years, 300 years, 500 years,

unto the utmost years.

Friend, you write like two Philip

Lamantias dying of cholera

in a thick canvas bag

battered into rocks

by swift moving water.

Your genius loci was a waste

of a perfectly good

20-sided die.

You and I grow fat

crouching in an attic

inventing new words

about orcs and dorks

and shit. I’m balding, Clark Ashton,

when I’m with you.

To write the phrase

“arcane congress with

buried mummies”

I cannot let slide.

At the beach me and

Clark Ashton Smith wear

striped one-pieces like


We’re ashamed of our torsos.

We compose new archangels

brutal enough to punish us

for our tastes in cravats and

fainting couches.

I have cholera—

he has anti-semitism—

we make a good team.

We’re moving to Providence

to live the fainting dream.

At the beach we dig our

hands into the water

through the shells and

pearls and silver coins and

dredge up a brand-new 12 piece set

of Zwilling J.A. Henckel

fine edge cutlery with stain-

resistant steel and polypropylene

grips with traditional three-rivet




8” bread knife!

8” chef’s knife

also called the “Cook’s”


7” hollow edge santoku knife

hollow grooves for

better release!

3” paring knife

for paring!

4.5” steak knives (6)!

Sharpening tool and

hardwood block.

Yum Yum!

The spirit is moving.

We lie back in the desert

we eat them.




Christopher Schaeffer is currently earning a PhD at Temple University. His recent work has appeared in The Volta, The Philadelphia Review of Books, A Literation, No Assholes, and elsewhere.