Hello to you. Soon I will go pedaling a first book of poems. If hope the sweetest chapbook publisher will gobble up
Dead-Eye Spring, which has seen a lot of recent revisions. To those of you who know this poem, I confess to you that I fiddle for so long. Wish me the best. Likely I can wish you luck too as you pedal poems.
When you write poems, my life is better. Yesterday I said this corniness but meant it. And pedal bone is the principal bone in the hoof of a horse. Coffin bone is the other term. ("And" can be such fakery. And, in the presence of horse people I hesitate to write about horses; sugar lick or pedal bone.)
I have a new tortoise, so look for tortoise posts. I have found myself in the middle of a chapbook? called A Polyurethane Heart. I'm sure it will change. Yahoo! I want its simple exclamation back. To crave simplicity is a complicated matter; that's for scholars.
Here is one poem from "A Polyurethane Heart." Forget that. Here are 5 new new poems.
A Polyurethane HeartCome up, no air, sorry. Such intolerable
stridor. Whether striking someone
or an apologetic wink, I can practice grace
but barbarity jettisons it. Don’t you want
to kiss a sexy lover, hold up placards
of emotions (remorse, briars, relentless,
get-off, wavelength, bad headshot, effort,
and fall-out). I happened to look when a kid
pushed a smaller kid off the teeter totter.
Thrown off my emoting polyurethane,
I could remember
the first time I saw an animal tied up
in an awful yelping or prancing in a yard
way, if I tried. She may've lunged at me
for saying it, that memories arise from effort,
cold to the touch, a dark temperature. Never
discuss the repercussions of a school paper’s
sentence like “In the times of ancient grease
a strigil was used, perfect too for shaving
strigose skin.” The information was there
but so what. I put my coat on backwards,
mocking a crowd, wiggling tragically cute,
thinking I was that. To make another corpse
scrape in the coating required your hand.
A cat, one man on the gurney, other
people, suffer heart palpitations. I rode
closer in on the heart, with a protective
covering for my eyes. Please don’t say
a number of years before l
ater or
before as in “twenty years later” or “twenty years
before.” I’ll throttle the resins, coatings,
insulations, adhesives, foams, and fibers
or throw spiders at your slack jaw.
Cabello on top.
Gentle. I want to talk into handheld devices
about metallurgy, rust, cheesecloth, poly-
urethane for now, can there be any durables
left, the Merck manual’s heart section,
tiebreakers, bandages, an ice-creamed
cheek, what has snuck in. I twang a lot, pop
the microphone, order carryout
and fuss up my house. Don’t you want me
to rest. It is humorous in the dark. Are you?
Metallurgic, darling?
She's smacked me with a pork loin,
packages of seeds (I couldn’t catch
the names). A shopper walks back
to the bathroom, usually near the meat,
to sit there and miss someone.
The aisles shorten. After punishment
comes one lover who had doodled loops
or danced helluva a lot, had oily or
dry hair, not sure, braids or steady
nightmares, never helped anyone
unpack or feed on swan, except for
“Tuércele el cuello al cisne, " the best
gesture of slashing a past, trimming
hedges. For that we put on frocks.