Regular Poem: Waiting

17 Apr

A still wet night
a fire
pants are sticking
to sticky legs
and the sticky metal
of a sticky chair
the smell of lavender–
it’s potpourri, and
it’s seeped into
the pores;
it’s not warm enough yet for the
smell of honeysuckle–

it’s too chilly
for night hammock
night biking
night convertible
night anything

but not chilly enough
not to be here
outside

waiting

for the season
suddenly
to leapfrog.

Regular Poem: The Third Time Someone Calls You a Horse

17 Apr

I’ve been looking at saddles
online;
they’re expensive.
Do I really need the blanket or?

Surely I can find one that
suits my needs and
suits my price range and
suits my style.

I have sensitive skin.
Chafing might be an issue.
So I’d better have the blanket.

But maybe there could be
glitter?

But what if I can’t find
a saddle?

And what if I’m not
actually a horse?

What if I’m an
ass
instead?

Regular Poem: Before the Mosquitoes

16 Apr

Before the mosquitoes
but after the frost
between the gales
and under the foggy moon

there’s something
wet and brief
smelling of trees and mud
tasting of metal–
but the kind that’s been
submerged
in a man-made lake–
feeling like a heavy blanket
smooth and clean and cold
like when you’ve just
slid in bed
after a long day.

It’s something,
and it flickers
like lightning,
and it haunts
like thunder.

Regular Poem: Boss Interview

14 Apr

But do you have a passion
for emasculating your employees?
for cutting their Achilles tendons
and laughing
watching them writhe impotently
on the cold tile?
for giving them the illusion of agency
only to pull it out from under their feet,
giggling as they tumble to the pavement,
face-first and wailing to no one?
for disrespecting them and their basic dignity as adults,
treating them as stupid children who need
dunce caps?

Decribe your commitment
to the ideals of
degradation, humiliation, disrepect, unprofessionalism.

Are you willing and able
to actively
disregard employees’
opinions, feelings, preferences,
and–most especially–
talents?

We’re very impressed
with your absolute inhumanity
and general horribleness.
Come sign the necessary paperwork in our office
in the lowest pit of hell.

Regular Poem: High Octane

13 Apr

Maybe she saves
the best of herself:

Like she’s got two tanks
of personality, and
what we see comes out of
the reserve;
it’s stale and diluted;
it coughs and sputters,
but it drives
kind of.

Somewhere,
someone
might see her high octane.

I shudder thinking of it.

Regular Poem: Scent

12 Apr

A dog–
probably any dog, but especially
one of those tracking dogs–
can smell your smell,
can smell one thing
that’s been close to you,
has caressed your skin,
absorbed you in passing

just once
and can then find that scent
in a realm awash in other scents–
a forest, a locker room.

A person you haven’t seen
in ages embraces you
and says,
“You smell the same.”

And yet you’ve changed
your perfume,
your shampoo,
your makeup,
your diet.

How does an old acquaintance
separate out that smell that is you
from the artificial ones that are but aren’t,
distill it into a memory filed under
you?

Would you
be able to identify your own
scent in a lineup?

Regular Poem: Real Spring

11 Apr

fog over the moon
and steak-and-butter smell
an orange sky
a far-off rain

it’s spring
but barely

the first mowing
the first tornado

all the firsts
brown and yellow and green
wet and gross

strange plants
you’ve never seen and
don’t care to see

when is the green
the real green?

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