three poems.
I’ve got a book coming out this week. The chapbooks are already sold out (I’m keeping a few for later) but it’ll be on kindle as well (very cheaply, because it’s poetry, and who needs poetry.) There’s about a hundred poems in it and the chapbook/for real version has illustrations (but the kindle does not). Several other of my poems are here online, if you like that kind of thing.
Here are three poems from that book.
shovels in the sun
outside the little taco stand at 13th street and juniper I met
this bum, this grifter
lying on his side by the beer vomit, he was fooling around with the drawstring on his
grey, thin sweatpants
I sat there waiting. They didn’t have a waiting area, no tables inside. no Loitering.
“I went to the sun.” he told me. “there is a lake there, but it ain’t a regular lake. it’s fire, all fire.”
I smoked. He kept on at me, “Once, I went there. You can’t stay long. It’s hot you know. all the fire. all fire…”
His face creased. His hands started rolling imaginary coils of paper, clacking dirty nails together.
My taco order came up. So I got the bag and sat back down. I had nowhere to be.
“if you get to go to the sun, watch out. they’ll try to trick you. I had to escape, they’re assholes there.
I want to warn you, but they’re listening, right now.”
He pointed at the sky.
“well, what can they do from there?” I had to know. “shoot fire at us?”
“they’ll come and get me, take me back there. I said too much already. shit.”
He stopped. His hands sat now still on the concrete next to the vomit and some bird shit.
“have a taco.” I handed him one.
he nodded but didn’t look at me again.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________
muscularity
they’re all over my street
it’s a goomba parade, chains, sweat,
shirts like white flags
there’s a guy in a tall pair of boots in the door
of the gay bookstore across the street swearing at them,
“whaddafuckayawant, goomba? samattah? ya scared of a faggot?”
he’s loud, they look very scared in fact, sweating,
every pore dripping oil, olives, salt, pasta flour,
ten bucks and change for a flat box,
their shirts stick to them.
it’s fuckin summer, it’s fuckin summer. I can hear one murmur.
it’s fuckin summer, why’s he gotta wear so much boots.
_____________________________________________________________________________________
scooter trash
we went in my car to wyoming. in wyoming
you can buy all the fireworks you like.
dark road in the fields, a farmhouse miles away
Pile it upo, pile it up. we’d spent all our money,
ten of us emptying our pockets to fill my backseat with
everything that can explode.
Pile it up. then the gas
I grabbed a match, as he was pouring it on
This was no ordinary pile, it was taller than I am, it was stacked
everything still in boxes, tinsel and all
the gas was strong, just enough to soak the heap and not enough to run
its dangerous tentacles onto the road
when I tossed the match everything paused,
the stars were very bright, the air clean, high altitude air
My hand didn’t shake
I was afraid of the pile but hadn’t realized that.
It roared immediately, thrusting its paws up
grabbing at everything
we backed off.
“Do you think it’ll explode all at once?”
The pile came alive, throwing pieces at us. Not an explosion, but a chaotic
and careless sort of splashing of whizzers,
bangers, poppers, delayed sizzlers, and bright lights
We ran to the car. The fear had started. We got in, drove away fast.
I stared at our monster out the back window,
for miles and miles I could see every little burst and rage coming off of it.
It finally became a distant blinking star
and faded. Thirty miles away.
The news the next day said that the road had glassified, from the heat but
“No injuries or fire was reported.”
