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John LaPine

@johnlapine.bsky.social

533 followers 566 following 106 posts

Gay poet / gape owe it.

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John LaPine @johnlapine.bsky.social · 04/02/2025

How I think I look when I'm up on stage reading a poem about getting ghosted by another married man:

Chappell Roan at the 2025 Grammys holding a notebook

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John LaPine @johnlapine.bsky.social · 11/12/2024

An ad for my chapbook of essays, titled An Unstable Container, says:

I wrote a book (it's really good) but don't just take my word for it. Charles Jensen, author of Splice of Life: a memoir in 13 fil genres" says "i couldn't put it down." Marisa crane, author of "I keep my exoskeletons to myself" says "this book made me ugly cry." Krys Malcolm Belc, author of "The Natural Mother of the Child" says "I loved being along for the ride."

The ad also includes a QR code to preorder, which navigates to this link: https://bullcitypress.com/product/an-unstable-container-by-john-lapine/

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John LaPine @johnlapine.bsky.social · 08/12/2024

Zach Semel - "Skyrim, in Retrospect" in FreezeRay Poetry www.freezeraypoetry.com/zach-semel.h...

Skyrim, in Retrospect

You and I used to laugh / for hours sending our
level 70 Khajiit / slinking around the / low-lying plains / near Whiterun,
shooting deer in / the ass / with seemingly infinite Iron Arrows,
giggling at the irony / that the butt was a site / of birth, of exit / without entrance, ‘cause / really,
what’s one more unclean thing / thrown into that / mass of muscle / and digestive sludge / it just
makes no sense / to want to roll in the mud / to trade soft skin / for choking on boys’
body spray clouds / we know better / than anyone that men / are imperfect
but I love it / and I know cis-men / are so good at thinking / they have the answers
but this time, I’m sure / that I don’t want to marry / Ysolda for the hundredth fucking time; no
I want to kiss / Redguard swordsmen with faded face tattoos / to hold
hands with taut-muscled / elves who make sinister comments / to passersby
but never to me; I want / souls that wish / they could once start a goddamn character
by picking “Other” / would you think I was serious
if I told you I want bodies / that look like yours
and that don’t?
How have we spent / ten years hopping from stone to stone / over this flowing
part of me? / So many questions I never / beg you to ask—is it my fault / you don’t know
enough? All those times / that we’d game / all day and
my parents / would joke that we’d someday / get married
then laugh--
all those times
that I laughed too.

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John LaPine @johnlapine.bsky.social · 05/12/2024

Hyperfixation

Screenshot of Spotify Wrapped says: my top artist, Chappell Roan, minutes listened 5,161, top 0.05% of listeners worldwide

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John LaPine @johnlapine.bsky.social · 04/12/2024

What up, blue folk, my chapbook of essays is now available for pre-order from @bullcitypress.com !! All of my blurbers told me they couldn't put it down, and I hope you enjoy it too! bullcitypress.com/product/an-u...

Book cover for "An Unstable Container" by John LaPine shows an art installation of two figures falling

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John LaPine @johnlapine.bsky.social · 20/11/2024

Search “concert” in your camera roll and post the oldest image: Zhu, 2018

Photo of a concert says "welcome to Ringo's desert"

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John LaPine @johnlapine.bsky.social · 15/11/2024

Meme says "toss your mullet in a bun, drink some monster, put on some hyperpop and handle it"

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John LaPine @johnlapine.bsky.social · 14/11/2024

This little piece was published in Rhythm N Bone but it looks like they're defunct now so it's looking for a new home!

Tabitha married young; at fifteen, her husband promised her a house, a farm, a lawn. Two years later, he would deliver; at their wedding, her parents promised them a goat, a handful of chickens, and Lydia, the pregnant sheep who’d die in childbirth the following spring, her body now persevered in the couple’s ice chest, which they refilled with each week’s ice delivery, slabs of ice cooling her pink, paper-wrapped flesh.

They planned to run out of Lydia by fall, when the oldest chickens would be ready for harvest and the twins would be born. Tabitha had lost her first last winter; her husband, fearing a lack of nutrition, encouraged her to eat and eat. Each week, he’d make a meal of slaughtered sheep; roast Lydia, side of corn on the cob, and potatoes, baked and slathered with white, hand-churned butter.

In August, they traveled into Lansing to visit her aunt, where Tabitha tried her first sorbet, an orange mound into which she’d chisel her spoon, carving the frozen treat like a marble monument, sticking the metal to her tongue, then lapping up sugar until she could no longer bear the cold. She’d let her mouth warm up, then repeat until she’d scraped the ceramic bowl clean. She’d never tasted anything so sweet. Her husband bought her seconds, then thirds.

But that night, she awoke, covered with itching hives. She suspected the sorbet, the Lydia, the twins, even the ice. She scratched herself in the dark; her squirming woke the babies, who kicked her from inside in protest, as well as her husband, who produced a match, struck it, and touched it to their bedside candle to discover her rashy, reddening flesh.

Palming her skin, he found a brown lone star tick had plunged its teeth into her calf, a brown body biting a brown body. His pale fingers felt, at once, clinical and strange. She pictured her softening flesh becoming chocolate sherbet, frozen cream laced with sugar. She imagined herself falling apart, melting under his hands.

On Wednesday morning, the doctor diagnosed a red meat allergy. Indeed, every time she’d feast on lamb, pork, or beef, she’d break out. Even milk made her itch. Her husband promised to throw out Lydia.

But something about the itching fascinated her. Soothed her, even. When her husband would excuse himself at dinners, she’d steal bites of pork or steak off his plate, and always wake up itching, cursing the kitchen who must have contaminated her poultry meal. She’d stay up all night, relishing her hives.

After the twin’s birth, while rummaging through the freezer for leftovers, Tabitha found a forgotten bit of sheep toward the back. She unwrapped the paper and felt her tongue move toward the frozen brick of flesh. She slid her teeth over the marbled rump, cold ribbons of meat peeling into her mouth. That night, the rash emerged; she scratched until her skin came loose under her nails, the first time, perhaps, she’d felt control in her life.

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John LaPine @johnlapine.bsky.social · 14/11/2024

My favorite fall tradition

Google search results for "what is a deductible"

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John LaPine @johnlapine.bsky.social · 13/11/2024

Good evening BlueSkiiers Here's a poem I wrote in 2020 about this joke of a nation!

I am an American
I am bootstrap and extra mayonnaise.
I am the freedom to harm myself and
Windex the mirror. Newspaper cuts
through blood the best. There are no
others like me. I am an alcoholic
toddler. I’m a hungry highway,
eighteen drive thru menus
whispering poems in dark canyons.
An obituary not unlike a cannonpeal.
In my mind, I’m an American
celebrity. In your mind,
that’s an accomplishment.
I’m a treat; I’m a crutch.
I am wet pleasure.
I am the twelve piece chicken nugget combo.
America, the beautiful.
America, the car crash, America
the slow motion panic attack.
America, the homeless.
America, the smoke alarm is sounding just for you.
I’m betting it all on red,
white and blue

I am an American, no lettuce
extra cheese. Beer over bitters,
butter soaked burger buns,
always room for seconds and desert
drone strikes. America, hold the coleslaw.
America, what strange biology
keeps you afloat?
America, your dictionary’s empty.
America, that itchy feelings back
and I can’t afford the copay.
And, America? Can’t you hear them?
Their barking approaching like wild dogs?
11
Should I buy a house, or should I emigrate?
Perhaps I’ll drink a bottle of wine
and start again somewhere else.
America, my head’s making that funny noise again.

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John LaPine @johnlapine.bsky.social · 12/11/2024

Oscillating between "nothing matters" and "nothing matters"

Meme of two men riding the bus. One looks depressed, captioned with "nothing matters," and one smiles while looking out the window, also captioned "nothing matters"

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John LaPine @johnlapine.bsky.social · 12/11/2024

this crockpot, with the meatballs in bbq sauce + grape jelly, or the lil smokies 🔥🔥🔥

meatballs in a crockpot with barbecue sauce

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John LaPine @johnlapine.bsky.social · 12/11/2024

Oh baby you *know* a takeout order of beef pho and a Michigan brewed beer hates to see me comin 😏🍜

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John LaPine @johnlapine.bsky.social · 11/11/2024

when the third cup of coffee hits

a still from the film The Substance shows an splitting with multiple pupils and irises

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John LaPine @johnlapine.bsky.social · 11/11/2024

To be honest, IDK how much I'm gonna use this app, I'm always torn between engaging with online communities & reducing screentime. But tonight I confronted my abuser, so y'all can read the poem I wrote about them. CW // SA