Hello, I'm aiming for most weeks' poems to be good enough to make it to the publishing center, but for weeks when I really don't feel like I've achieved that, I'll post poems here.
Instead, he said, Brother! I know your hunger. To this, the Wolf answered, Lo!
Divide it into seven sections like a cake, tape it to your fish tank or drive over it with your Ford Escape. I don’t really care what happens: do whatever it takes. Get your markers, get your glue, grab scissors and a magazine too, and a newspaper from 1992. It’s all the same to me if it’s all the same to you. Slather it in wheatpaste and stick it to your door. I have nothing to do with it anymore. Give it to the rich and give it to the poor. There’s really nothing else it could be used for. Steal it from my house and sell it for parts, or apply with it for a degree in modern arts. Zest it like a lemon and bake it in your tarts. Find its longitude and plot it on your charts. Tattoo it on your body, confuse a coroner, use it in your marriage proposal just to upset her. Take it to improv, mislabel it humor. Try to convince your doctor it’s a premalignant tumor. Use it at the derby, pony up and bet it. Fall in love, try to bed it and wed it. Crumple up the paper, burn it and forget it, just don’t let me live to regret it.
Why I am Obsessed with Clowns (unfinished)
Because when I looked past the bloody Halloween masks and into the mismatched brocade and motley, when I saw the exaggerated faces caked with paint, when I saw the round or lanky bodies built to tumble, to teeter on the wire, to fall, to crack a grin, I saw the place where atmosphere bleeds into space.
I am at the Ren Faire and the Nerds are Hitting on Me
because I’m juggling they want to tell me they juggle too and I want to tell them to go away and I want to tell them that it’s okay that they don’t have to tell me anything I can read it on their hopeful faces but here I am juggling, so what was it for? I want to tell them that even though I’m in a skirt, I’m not a girl and I want to see what they make of that I want to tell them that the person who used to call me a nerd meant it affectionately and I loved her for it and I want to see what they make of that instead I tell them it’s cool and ask them how they learned and they tell me about their dads and I imagine the noble tradition of nerds learning how to juggle because their dads taught them and it makes me feel alright and they smile and tell me their names which I immediately forget and I feel like a curse or a crab or something inhuman that was blessed with hands that used to not know how to juggle
Villanelle Time I thought the time was made to tell Where the sun was in the sky. For this, I write a villanelle.
When morning broke, I had to yell “IT ISN’T YET MY TIME TO DIE” I thought the time was made to tell.
When noontime struck, they tolled a bell While the sun shone golden hot up high For this, I write a villanelle.
When evening came, my spirits fell I realized I was just a guy. I thought the time was made to tell
When night crept on, it gave me hell The stars were like a thousand eyes For this, I write a villanelle
Then midnight, with its glassy spell Broke me from a trance and I, I though time was made to tell: For this, I write a villanelle.
Instead, he said, Brother! I know your hunger. To this, the Wolf answered, Lo!
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