The Tower Journal

  Gregory Vincent St. Thomasino

  excerpt from Suicide by Language
  a flash fiction novel

In my dream I held a goldfinch and heard the voices of Dismas and Gestas. 

I came beside her but before I could tell her, the wind blew her dress against her body.  When I awoke she was kneeling beside me. 

Jacques-Marie, I uttered. 

The wind was picking up. 


She didn’t know there were rickshaws in Manhattan.  In church there are mandalas everywhere. 

Every cabby knew the way to Sneden’s Landing.  


Manners.  She leads with her biology.

And if you were a flower you would be a . . . touch-me-not? 

She is too intellectual to have children.  The biology of childbirth disgusts her.  She said the whole birth and death business, why subject a loved one to that.  The whole matter of excretions!  The whole manner of excretions!  It’s a one giant cringe for man, one giant cringe for mankind situation.  If you could talk to the animals in the zoo, they’ll tell you how much they hate us. 

That morning, downstairs in the laundry room, we encountered a chin disguised as a woman.  It had a child attached to its chest.  I said the end of woman is the child.  She said the end of woman is the chin. 

She took the name Brons Hermione.  And I, Harpis Bandoneon. 

So, even if I give my super a hundred bucks for Christmas, he still wants to kill me, burn down my apartment, and rape my wife? 

The taking of Elian at gunpoint? 

Manners.  The poet as social man.  Bashō?  Rimbaud?  Thoreau?  Van Gogh? 

She did the whole first chapter of The Whale for me.  We’re talking magnitudes and properties, she said.  Seems some letters are more equal than others. 

This scene takes place on the beach. 

The sky looks painted on. 


The poet’s mechanicity.  Poetry and wallpaper.  It seems to me this poetry is better suited for wallpaper.  My reaction is to say, if you make enough of it you can do a wall. 


No, I don’t think poetry’s dead.  I think you’re dead. 


It’s proper for the poet to from time to time have the gendarmes at his door. 


Hath the rain a father?  If I am reborn, bald, bearded and hunchbacked. 


   Copyright © 2017 Gregory Vincent St. Thomasino

Gregory Vincent St. Thomasino most recent volumes of poetry are The Valise (Dead Academics Press, 2012) and Selected Poems (Bibliotheca Universalis, 2017). He is founding editor of the online poetry journal, Eratio. For more from the novel, Suicide by Language, visit

The Tower Journal
Fall/Winter 2017