interviewed by the tender, young, virile writer

DeWitt Brinson

DeWitt Brinson: How could you and when can?

Peter Longofono: There isn't, but if, in any way, it, then I, more than once. When can't, apparently.

DB: In the top of you head lies a what?

PL: Teensy charcoaled excavating rig with a wry cast of operators.

DB: A small boy is sleeping in an open drawer in your hotel room. What do you say when he asks why we are here on earth?

PL: To drawer and be outdrawered. 

DB: Is poetry an extension of the poet or an impression of the poet’s? or is it much at all?

PL: An extension of the poet in the sense that it stays when the poet dies and an impression of the poet's in the sense that it doesn't exist without looking-weight.

DB: Afraid until tuesday, the unopened door? 

PL: The Afraid, unopened, until-Tuesday door.

DB: Look deep within your being and talk about the creature.

PL: Extinct, firstly, and difficult to diagram. Possessing a ridged crest of dubious purpose. Endowed with speech. Reclusive, disorderly, Celtic, and wet.

DB: What’s the feeling when you see an ex on the street?

PL: Alright, then. You're also visible. Welp.

DB: How soon is too soon to figure out who you are?

PL: It's not just that I don't know the answer to this question. I don't know anyone who would know anyone who would know.

DB: Maple trees or syrup?

PL: Maple bark.

DB: Talk about your bed in a business-like manner.

PL: This one won't go for much, but it fits needs, so there's that. Very little support and practically no return. It's less of an investment every day. It isn't fungible.


Peter Longofono received his MFA from NYU, where he edited international content for Washington Square Review and served as a Goldwater Fellow. His poems and criticism have appeared or are forthcoming in H_NGM_N, The Bakery, and Coldfront. He lives in Brooklyn.