the elevator arrives but u forget why ur there
too many days saying not this
or [worse] hearing not chu
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Dad was a classically trained toilet paper tosser. A disciple of Auburn University, where fans celebrated home football victories by plastering the college’s trees in white tissue. He used to say that over there in east Alabama, everyone was a pro like him, that even the toddlers and the elderly rocketed rolls into the highest leaves, that it must have been some kind of anomalous athletic gift akin to the flexibility of Russian gymnasts or the jaw muscle stamina of hotdog eating contest winners—in the case of Auburn’s toilet paper lofters, some genetic advantage in the wrist tendons maybe, or perhaps the forearm.
Before sunrise,
a red-blooded man
says he can cook
me a Bundy burger
if I want one...
We know our house meant something to you, but the thing is, to us, it’s just our house. Our home. Nothing more.
Have you eaten? I have. I’ve eaten your order.
of no small size swelling
in me. I will liken it to a grapefruit,
the frequent object of comparison in stories
Our chapbooks
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Yeah live forever mood
as a minnow school
flutters patches of pond
& gramps jumps into one of those
haggard, saggy, where am I? naps.
but that doesn’t mean i’m
not deserving of
kindness.
What if Jefe’s never got condemned, if
The Backyard never changed management, if Tiny
Robots still played gigs.
It’s raining the day she meets her first grandchild. Soon there are five of them, small and dirty and sweet-smelling. She’s easy with them, more so than with her own children. She calls them devils when they come to her, holding out worms and candy.
Mrs. Gwynn’s markering made that butcher paper sing. Person! It chirped in my right ear. Person! It cooed in the left. Person! It ballyhooed around my legs and feet. Her nostrils widened, then her face drew tight. I knew she smelled the sharp tang of milk parlor on me, chlorinated-manure stink that went deeper than scalding water and soaps. I was proud.
a whole gigantic marching band, one that used to be louder than bulldozers, louder than jets, louder than Aunt Catherine after three margaritas (no salt)
I want a little more bureaucracy
in my horror.
Zach Braff is the perfect manic pixie dream boy
for any pet funeral, and yet, I suppose
he didn’t get the memo that he was meant
to come down from the Garden State and do the honors.
