ALL POETS ARE GOOD-LOOKING!

All poets are beautiful!

All poets have delicate fingers!

All poets have dimples or have emotional dimples!

All poets have clear sad eyes!

All poets have bodies that are the right size,

or else their bodies are the wrong size for poetic reason!

All poets are wonderful listeners!

All poets are wonderful lovers!

All poets make accurate assumptions!

All poets develop stunningly accurate first impressions of you!

All poets get that faraway look in their eyes!

All poets have eyes that reflect the fog or the sea!

All poets make meaningful decisions!

All poets are composed of salient images!

All poets learn from their failures!

All poets are romantic, lonely, and romantically lonely!

All poets stumble eloquently when they are looking for the right thing to say!

All poets can float!

rose

found you on the bdfm stairwell hanging not far from a friend

very whole very forgotten picked you up

never gave you to anyone brought you home dropped you in a glass of water

with a toothbrush that tasted like hands there were bubbles

but the number of bubbles declined quickly as you

rotted you had been smooth and round but you were now

wrinkled you had been red now brown and speckled like a faun

thought to throw you in the trash with blood and snot and paper

brought you instead to the window where you lie doomed in a cold sun

will drop your shrunken petals ten five one down the fire escape

and you will be in a place in a shape you never were before

A list I found

SWAN $50

2 -- 1/2 + 1/2

3 -- club

1 -- pineapple

1 -- watermelon

1 -- cantaloupe

Ent. Donuts

The Proposition (Pushkin)

Tried out something kind of cool with this one: transliterated this and turned the sounds into what seemed right. Here is a version of the original (didn't read it until after I wrote mine). I recommend this trick to people who want to depart from their usual styles.

The Proposition

Here, poppyseeded, tulip-rooted girl,

I've brought you something your myopic eyes can read.

No more running between pools of hot and cold water,

no nestling myself within your three houses.

The cabbage still quivers in the springtime fields;

the round jingle metal hum leads to summer;

my loyal pinto plays the existential philosopher;

and thieves scavenge like yesterday.

But, cream-filled bundt, we pair in the ranches

repeatedly, you so close to the hairs on my body.

We've built our own philosopher's farm for golems

with my bulbs and your mineral-rich tears.

Together we are the rushing of the river over the rocks,

and January cannot freeze us, we are May:

holy in the cellar stairwell, holy at the dusty crossroads,

holy rooms, holy boxes, holy honeypots.

So if I proposed a new Wednesday education

and nudged you toward a voting booth

no more could you run me with your arguments,

no more would I nestle in your three houses,

and I would pay you back for mud and seriousness

and chalk up the velvet, vulgar words you make me think.

And in your maroon chair, open this letter,

and look, and read slowly, and consent.

Eyjafjallajökull

We can't ever fly with silt in our wings,

or in our lungs, so we hold our breath

when wind mates with ash and makes clouds of dust.

Grounded again, our bones are steel,

at least, but everyone on the wrong side

of their oceans is counting and recounting the grains of salt

à la plage y la playa, everyone is finally

buying a converter, nobody's cell phone

works in this fucking country and the keyboards are confusing,

with accent marks and punctuation in

all the wrong places. And everyone really

just wants to go home but they'll have to board a ship or something

because the skies are down,

but the world is still up

and without our drones they can hear the bees humming.

Edison's Song

There is something bewitched

in the flick of a light switch.

Fingers feeling towards illumination,

and the way we'd clap, like trying

to catch fireflies, burst them to brightness

with a squish. This flicker of life

encased behind plastic and glass,

trapped, dying, a high-pitched knell

that squeals itself white:

the spins, the dims fought off again,

this every-night sacrifice

so we can see color in the dark.

Under the Arch

Hey mister, anybody ever tell you

that in a long, tall glass of water

you're the chunk of lime?

Legs like legends, unspooling,

and your concentration's blurry

and your clothes are ironed sharp,

all lines and angles and

protractions, a whole made up of fractions,

mathematical, leaning precise

in the decadent magnolia air,

in the bowed mahogany sound,

in the softness of spring

you are clear as ice, cut right

and reflecting the starlight that

no one else looks to see.