Eli grew up and attended college in the green hills of Vermont. Before beginning his poetic training under Major Jackson and Stephen Cramer, he contributed to and attended the New England Young Writers Conference in both 2012 and 2013. Eli is also a frequent contributor to the University of Vermont’s literary magazine, Vantage Point, as well as a member of the Pomeroy Street Poets, a local poetry group based out of Burlington, Vermont. He is the 2017 recipient of the University of Vermont’s Benjamin C. Wainwright Poetry Award, and his works have appeared in the last two volumes of Honeybee Press as well as the most recent three of UVM Vantage Point. Currently, he is debating whether or not he should trade in his democratic utopia of a home-state for somewhere where the sun actually shines and snow doesn't stay for half a year.


I Love You, But You’re Bringing Me Down

Pitchfork’s Ode to LCD Soundsystem



LCD, whose display was more shimmer than fresh stream, named itself aptly after Ghetto Blasters, walls of amps, and apathy.

LCD, whose catalog covered more than your Catholic Sister, made Bowie and Byrne fuck on stage.

LCD, who died under a disco ball in a nor’easter of balloons and confetti, scalped the scalpers and saved rock and roll.

LCD, who gave up breakthrough popularity to make artisan coffee and read Brautigan novels, picks up dog shit with the New Yorker and claims to love his hometown.

LCD, who walks around Brooklyn in a morgue owners suit, listens to Marquee Moon on oversized headphones.

LCD, who practiced self-immolation for four straight days at Madison Square Garden, reduced a career to lite-bright pieces and cow bell clicks.

LCD, who recorded in Rick Rubin’s haunted mansion, wants something realer than the metallic chamber they made to record the Sound of Silver, or the Daft Punk discs they first scratched at your house party.

LCD, who still might actually show up to your house party, stands in the corner, gentrifying Pabst Blue Ribbon and critiquing your record collection.

LCD is simultaneously disgusted and attracted to the fact that you own Taylor Swift’s 1989 on vinyl.

LCD, who made fat Elvis a rock star again at the age of 32, proved that different is the image record companies should be looking for.

LCD, who turned their guitars in for synthesizers, and their synthesizers in for guitars, blossomed out of boiler room sets and penthouse coke binges.

LCD, who used to work at the record shop, recommends you listen to Gil Scott Heron and buy Sumatran blend coffee, only available on black market channels.

LCD, who laid in a shallow grave of 9+ reviews, returns on the third day to Red Rocks,like Jesus Christ playing a synthesizer, but gives that up too, for something more fashionable than being a savior: seven string guitars, singing saw, zeusaphone, theremin.

LCD, whose dirt coated fingers pull up from the earth, grabs at tabloids.



          after Frank Ocean’s “Nikes”



Fluorescent racecars flood a backyard,

            where palindromes are traded like prescription personalities.

                        Where the silhouette walking is cat-eyed,


his androgyny a concealed knife, a fire in a Zen garden.

            He is holy with the scripture of bisexual saints,

                        fragile and ephemeral like cherry blossoms.


The director to a graveyard of living bodies.

         Cue camera pan over the recreated death of Heaven’s Gate,

                  the Nike Decades poking out from under plum blankets.


This fabricated obsession. This glamorization

            of mass suicide. This montage of black faces

                        ejected like pawns from a chessboard. The Devil


watching Frank dance out of consumerism’s white cloth

       and into his glittering skin. He gleams like a nebula

            birthed on stage, like the sun choking light from wind chimes.


His music is West Hollywood synesthesia. The found

          finding themselves disappearing. Their faces appearing

                  on home videos and milk cartons, in the endless listicle


of Pied Piper victims. Nameless,

            strangled by Christmas lights or burned over crisping leaves,

                   leaving only the sermons of fight clubs and dance halls


affixed like scarlet letters to their chests.

American Horror Story




Somewhere in America, Helen Keller has a perfect

            score on Dance Dance Revolution. Nike is making

                her a signature sneaker; the laces encoded with Livestrong


quotes in braille. Somewhere in America, Nat Geo

            photographers have moved back to disposable cameras,

                        outsourced their Instagram accounts to children


from broken homes. Someone needs those followers,

            a spokesman says. Somewhere in America, a group

                        of Amish boys have caught God on Pokemon Go


and debate his release. They are nervous about the implications

            of political asylum. Somewhere in America,

                 Kanye West has interrupted a bingo game, a family dinner,


hopped the barricade at a high school wrestling show

            and cut a promo on how he is untouchable. Somewhere

                 in America, some of us have gotten away; Molly Ringwald


and Jeff Mangum sip lukewarm Miller Lite

          and write a thesis on the Marfa Lights. But somewhere

                in America, fame is a white Bronco on the California 405,


Schrödinger’s Orenthal with a starting gun

            to his head, fading in and out under streetlights.

                        The television audience, a laugh track, hissing.