October Poem 30: Furious Finals

The sleepless night ached inside of you like

A methane pool waiting sharp and shiny

On the forehead. Your brow wrinkled and wrapped

Wringing through thoughts like sweat soaked hand towels.

Absorbent eyebrows wet and sagging like

The frown dripping down and drawing dots on

The multiple choice test sheet. And yellow paint

Cracking against yellowed teeth chewing

The pencil. Teeth browned by the multiple pots

Of pure concentration poured straight through the

Funnel of your coffee cup cram session.

You and your friends finding new knowledge. The

Night before then becoming mere hours

Before the final was set to begin.

September Poem 22: Proper Catfish Pie

Greg Polan, who talks to invisible

People, doodles pictures pushed out of stream

Banks flooded where high waters have peril,

Even the pearl itself. Several people

Have reported, those asked to prepare smart

Sonic for the putter. Should you prepare

To keep things especially important.

Hearing aging Plymouths or Ramblers and

Stretched trot lines prim on banks and hooks. All things

Pedestrian to be sure, unlike prime

Photon people near time and weather. And

Proper people peering preciously on

Into surreal Holly Springs skeleton

Rebuild. Beautiful proper catfish pie.

July Poem 22: Dirty Dotted Chunks of Information

It was too harsh. Books banished, weeded, and

Smoke escaped one’s free words. Sad strands of smoke

Rose from the diffuse cherry. And the smoke sucked

Fields of weeds. A big bunch of these bad boys

Swept their own ink. They had smoked it like weed

Out the end of bad taste. The color of

Your teeth after you smoke twelve packs of Cools.

He was sure the weeds had needed a cut.

From early wood fire, and plants. Wet clay hills were

Suspended. The peels were hard to keep lit

When they held planes as fat as forest fires.

Gang violence replaced mineralized Mitch

For us. The bright color of fire ants tell

Dirty dotted chunks of information.

August Poem 6

Shall you stick your schlong

Into the slot marked bulk mail,

So the she-mailman can see

The slimy slitherer that you

So wish to show?

 

Shall she see the slippery salamander

And gaze at its glory

Or will she hear the horny horror

Of your hairy ham and heave at the hole?

 

Or shall she heave herself

At your sizable showing

And seize the shaft

Showering, slathering, and slobbering

Shiny lips and esophagus?

 

Shall she shimmy down her shorts

Showing her shorn snizz

And sheath your sword in her snatch

Swaying against the wall slot

Shielding your semblance from society?