Skip to main content

Poem Draft


Eggs from Anywhere

The codicil to my third will (the official one) reads:
One, don't give nothing to anybody. Take the money
in cash and throw it under the mud-packed wheels
of your car in the bumfuckingest place you can find.
If you can find a place that was on reality TV, cool.

Two, don't eat the nachos from Chili's or the eggs
from anywhere; they are related in that ingestion
might kill a weak woman or a tweaker man. I wish
the birds would not twitter in my ear when I make
decisions. It's fucked up enough in here. I wish for

you, number three, the magic number, that all the days
of your life you will find roses in the tassels of your horse's
mane billowing out into better metaphor and a landslide
of clean fill that temblors down the back roads
of the choked creeks that yield orange rocks, no fish

but the pretty stones stained with runoff and the greasy
pizza pieces left over by a million students who sit on the banks
stoned thinking that they're feeding the fish; god knows
the fish don't eat that shit either. Back to number four,
I'm afraid. I'm afraid all the time. I sit in my closet floor

and caparison myself to no avail. The world wants my body,
I say, and slam the door. Monopoly and Risk fall on my
head, and the little man in the top hat runs into the other
room to fuck my wife. Is that all? the voices say. It simply
can't be all. But that's the thing itself. This IS ALL you get.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Amy Holman

My mother made herself the deer with a broken leg  We saw a deer through the pane into someone else’s yard. The leg moved like a tube sock pinned to the hip  and half filled with sticks. I did not like to see it suffer, either. She was upset —my mother —that no one helped  the doe. Was it a mother, too? As if we were the first to observe the scene. We weren’t. All had been told to let her be. My mother had suffered a destruction  of the self, a divorce, and no one cared. That wasn’t true.  We were grown, on our own. I agree it was hard. Yet  in those moments of a cold November day, we watched  a doe, disabled and enduring, walk across a yard and eat  a hedge. I wish she could have seen it like that. Amy Holman is the author of the collection, Wrens Fly Through This Opened Window (Somondoco Press, 2010) and four chapbooks, including the prizewinning Wait for Me, I’m Gone (Dream Horse Press, 2005). Recent poems have been in or accepted by Blueline,

Beneath the Chickenshit Mormon Sun by Bruce Embree

I've posted this before, on a depressing day probably just like this one. This poem makes me feel better. That's all I have to say on that. It turned out worse than I thought The champion defended his title then Eldridge Cleaver came on to talk about his reasons for becoming a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints Grandma and I damn near fell out of our chairs Went to town and got crazy drunk Came back home, called you long-distance after cruising and drooling Mainstreet again This is my last wish and love poem It is as follows Want to hold the wake at noon with plenty of acid and rum No friends and relatives Ghost music by Hendrix and the Byrds drowning all sound as you fuck me to dust beneath the chickenshit Mormon sun. Links:  http://www.limberlostpress.com/authors/161embree1.html

Bree

No Mote black swans i almost didnt see but for their glowy beaks red as sumac- they didnt match the dark tones of lake, stuck out like your lust for me while i read to the children all cloistered- who could hear me even from the colonnade, all hickory and hops-vine, where i saw you watch me from inside a white willow tree. mergansers with their heads trailing swam among dead stakes of lotus. that belted kingfisher bode us a good day, and returned the children to their cages below bald cypress knees so naked i had to look away. you willowed no longer, i took leaf to mean wing, and feather to mean ivy. i took a shaded path back to the armory. it got hot and thick and i could breathe more heavily, rapt on high, no mote of hope. Bree is a poet and visual artist living in Pleasureville, KY. Her Green Panda Press has put out hand-made chapbooks, anthologies and sundry of the very small art and poetry press since 2001. In 2015 she began Least Bittern Books out of Henry County, K