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Poem: We/Canaries in Resurrection Mag

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Zine: Diary for a Pandemic: Mar-Jul 2020

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Some poems on things...

 

ON WATCHING MY FAVORITE INSTAGRAM RESCUE CAT EXPLORE THE FOREST FOR THE FIRST TIME

I have determined that the more times we do something and don't die the better we feel about it and the more we do it and enjoy doing it these small potentially overlooked joys become what we live for.

Now, if we DID die we wouldn't have to fear it either because we would be fucking dead, so then all these signs point to the fact that we should explore.

Timidly, at first, like the cat. Then with less and less fear basically until one thing or another does kill us.

 

ON BEING A SINGLE AT A WEDDING

Things to do at a wedding when you are a single


Examine a wooden birdhouse on the table


Watch families come together


Debate on personal blood alcohol levels


Eavesdrop on the woman with the Lisa Simpson phone case as she cold shoulders you out of the one sided convo she’s having with her husband about drones and how they are both teachers and she and he don’t want to talk to you so don’tevenlookoverthereok


Fix your hair


Eat a giant plate of no meat


Smile and stare vapidly at the silverware


Scan the room for somebody to sleep with and realize that most everybody is in pairs already and that you’ll only ever have a chance with drunk people 10 years younger than you wonder if that makes you a cougar then realize you’d rather just stick to form and fuck nobody because it’s less risky.


Try harder to talk to people about stupid things that don’t matter


Wish you still smoked


Have three pieces of cake while watching people you don’t know dance to “Celebrate”.


Leave unnoticed without saying goodbye...

 

ON TRICYCLES

I only felt things when I read magazines and saw people doing what I always wanted to.


I stared out my window and saw a perfect red shiny tricycle in my neighbor’s giant yard. He had money and I didn’t.


I wondered which one of us was happier. The people in the magazines writing stories, the rich guy, the tricycle, or me.

 

ON PIRATES OF THE
CARIBBEAN

Some days I feel like A forever chaser, running in circles like an

animatronic pirate in an amusement park ride.

Attempting but never securing,

singing the same sentence in a loop,

slightly behind the object of my desire.


(I love the smell of the water,

it reminds me of being a child.

Dense, murky, solid blackish in color.

I close my mouth when it hits me in the face,

cringe when it creeps onto my clothes

from the dirty overused boat seat)


Other days I think I am that old man who is being tortured

by the pirates, pulled up and down a deep well

on a rope, prodded for information. My wife yells for me

not to give in “Don’t be chickeeen” she says, safe from her high window

in a white cotton nightgown, while I try not to break.

 

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