-A Love Poem-
Think about your armpits. Now stop. Why did I say that? Now there are hairy damps. Finger vices. Bristling. Like a car accident. The shatter. Squirm metal, and now we turn. Just above your elbow a cockroach. Everyone slows because viscera slices are neckworthy. We can puncture. Or fold what skin should flatten. And don’t mention toes. Now, we need to talk. It’s about you, I mean, it’s about protruding. I didn’t mean to laugh. But under the wax paper, just where your tail bone rubs; there is prowess. Someone hangs pimples in their living room just above a black leather recliner. When the sun hits it, your ankles move. 00 Be the 1st to vote.Share...
Read More-Coiled-
Like the field-of-vew wobble you get by rotating a coke bottle. But not blurry. Just tinted and gyrating. It is a beginning of the day smell that tugs well past 4pm. And the trees just opened a box of doughnuts. The sprinkles cross-pollinated with the frosted and jelly-filled. The lid got all mashy. Someone has powdered sugar stuck on their fingers. And there is a three year old twisting. Ready to fly as soon as enough tension builds in her mother’s arm. Maybe that’s what they mean by Spring. That uncomfortable, almost let go already. While mom is still tisking and settle down will ya? We have to cross the street. But it is the not-crossed street that is the problem. It’s before coffee, and thus too soon. At the same time, coffee already brewed, burning in the...
Read More-Lunches Passing in the Afternoon-
Jen paced. She had windows, and a scrunch holding her hair in appropriate tension. No she didn’t. It was that friz. And I think she was in more of a desk-to-hall yoga pose. I couldn’t decide if her pants-suit was a metaphor or if the yellow broach pinned it. Like a mustard stain I was trying to rub out of my poem. Tiny pieces of napkin rolling themselves joints by her face. What I’m trying to say, she wasn’t. And I just ate my sandwich. Egg salad, oregano, tiny olive oil. We make our order and someone wraps it in wax. Like all lunches should pupate. Their too-neon peppers drop off, metamorphose olives. And there’s Jen. Half a loaf, with Asiago cheese. She flaps. The office lights refuse to yield. Somewhere a stack of papers sloughs off; makes an unappreciated...
Read More-The Merry Retch-
I heard about this poetry form, the beau present, today by following NaPoWriMo and I had to try it. It is a poem where you can only use words that contain letters available in a given name. I think my mistake was using my own name (Tommy Richter). It, this is not the poem I expected to write when starting with my name as a source of derivation. Also, it sounds way too high-English for my taste. But you can only do so much for sentence structure with nine possible letters. I might have done myself a favour if I used “Thomas” instead; I missed those A’s and S’s dearly. But I couldn’t resist the Y of Tommy…and this is what I got for it: —- -The Merry Retch- To cheer my memoir I met the erotic other itch. Tho it cry mythic, I...
Read More-Bar Codes For The Dating of Last Week’s Milk-
The question paper or plastic? Is better in reference to back massages. In that case, plastic. Go paper on the crevice next to the canned tomatoes. I would like my receipt to use knuckles. Don’t squash the sourdough. Should I put raw meat in its own protective? Don’t tell me to have a nice day, if you just nestled toothpaste in with cauliflower. I already swiped my card, and that mechanical click hasn’t yet made a humm-clunk. I wonder if I should have got more bowtie pasta. Those oblong plastic batons make my unsalted butter more distinct than her TV dinners and frozen kale. What am I making for dinner? Perhaps this shirt has too many stains to wear in a salad. I could have gotten a cart but instead I thought my elbows were crook enough for a weekend. 00 Be the...
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