Dark

v., chiefly intrans.
1. To utter a loud, harsh cry after filling one’s lungs with reflected moonlight, the panic of moth wings, or some similarly poetic (i.e., identified with the penumbral) material.
As in, “What if God should dark?”
2. To expectorate milkily.
As In, “The drunkards dark.”
3. To expire in manic convulsions, with one’s laughter, shrill and attended by a sizable audience, exploding the essence out of halos as if they were yesterday’s balloons.
As in, “These two incommensurate ideals dark in a single body.”
n. 1. What isn’t able to be read.

Joe Milazzo is the author of the novel Crepuscule W/ Nellie, two volumes of poetry — The Habiliments and Of All Places In This Place Of All Places — and several chapbooks (most recently, @p_roblem_s). His writings have appeared in Black Clock, Black Warrior Review, BOMB, Prelude, Tammy, Texas Review and elsewhere. He is an Associate Editor for Southwest Review and the Founder/Editor-In-Chief of Surveyor Books. Joe lives and works in Dallas, TX, and his virtual location is http://www.joe-milazzo.com. Here in these definitions in danger are what these words now mean, or might mean, or must mean if they wish to escape the new world incommensurate with the perceptions they’re accustomed to inhabiting. 

Eric Lindley is a musician, writer, and artist living in the bay area. His writing has appeared in Fence, Joyland, Tammy, and elsewhere, and other work at the Santa Monica Museum of Art, Machine Project, Telic Arts Exchange, The Knitting Factory, and The Smell. With Janice Lee and Joe Milazzo, he co-edited the online interdisciplinary arts journal [out of nothing] from 2009 to 2015. You can find Eric’s work online at https://likeoverflowing.com/