Janaka Stucky

Janaka Stucky currently lives in Boston, where he spends his life traveling, writing, and caring for the dead. His poems have been published in a variety of journals including North American Review, Frogpond, Elixir and VOLT. In 2004, Janaka founded Black Ocean, a publishing and production company based out Boston, New York and Chicago. He likes his whiskey neat and his music dirty.

 Articles by this Author

            Outside, the snow is knee-high and edibly white.
            My footsteps two floors above the morgue
            —I am locked in. Here
            to answer calls in the middle of the night like
            My wife is dead and
            to be the one who stays awake with her after she arrives
            strips her and covers her
            with a blanket.
            Here to mop the floor if she purges...

            The moon is dead
            Look at it above
            us decomposing like the sun

            It is dying on your pale skin
            in your eyes and on your teeth
            It is dying on your fingernails cold and fresh as juniper

            In the funeral business we have
            invented a pair of microchips that bring
            the dead back to life.
            One is inserted in the small of the back.
            The other goes over the sternum.
            Although the body still decays

            At funerals I see dark centipedes
            crawling in corners.
            Holidays bring suicides and
            the centipedes rush indoors.