ORPHAN POEM
This poem
is a poem
without a project
Like those dreams
of you naked
in public
Where to hide
where’s my underwear
can they see me
This poem
is a poem
without a sponsor
Like a refugee
we gawk at
on television
How far the shore
where the patrols
when the rescue
This poem
is a poem
without an identity
Like a stray
along a fence line
before a storm
When’s the next meal
where’s the next nap
that a friend or foe?
CHILLAXER
Ticonderoga “warrior” pencil
Veltin’s pilsner, product of Germany
Six by eleven hardbound black sketch pad
Mississippi river bend – barges, smoke
Blinding sun at dusk, dragon flies, lone man
Frolickers toss Frisbee, mosquito meal
Flowering hazelnut, piss place supreme
Folding chair for gramps, product of China
Cheery, chitter, chatter, tugboat horn blare
Foucault looking fellow, red shades, strumming
Young mom’s wooden beads, product of Tonga
Couple shuffling through tote, something lost, found
A fisherman – when not – a fisherman
Booties, of course, everywhere, urging on
ZOOM READER
Square 1, if you insist on knowing
has fucked squares 3, 6, and 14
Square 2, not too hard to imagine
also fucked square 3, plus 5 and 9
Square 8, according to square 13
will soon be fucking square 5
Square 4 – who could have guessed it
took a hard pass on fucking square 1
Square 5, we somehow know
fucked square 11 and 12 – at once
Square 6, when factoring out variables
has fucked no square, but beware
Square 7, you can’t not not tell us
hasn’t fucked square 2
Square 8 (blacked out), I intuit (again)
is fucking square 10 (blacked out)
Square 9, everybody knows
is bent on fucking square 4, after 3
Square 10, we can extrapolate
would un-fuck square 13, if possible
Square 11, according to the algorithm
might well fuck square 6, and soon
Square 12 (in speaker mode) drops a hint
it fucked square 7 (on mute)
Square 13 (the host) just won’t tell
if square 5 might fuck me, oh well
Square 14, we’ve come to a consensus
has been fucking itself, poker faced
SOCIALIST WAR PLAN
She was sorta in school, sorta living at home
sorta making money, sorta dating
Sorta scribbling things
One day, she declared herself a general
The campaign required a van, a Gulf Coast interstate
a thousand dollars a month (every month)
a bundle of twenty books (two of them, notebooks)
a slew of talkative strangers
serene moonlight
rye whiskey