The Plaid Ant


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Notes from the Butcher Shop

SPAM Poetry Prompt #629

I don’t want no short sausage man
Always selling me something fake
I don’t want no one run faster than I can
Or pay an inch for the mile he take

I don’t want no excuses for days
Always telling me something slick
I don’t want them sideways ways
Got a mouth to feed and a bone to pick

I don’t want no ride in your Cadillac
Always blinding me with something bright
I don’t want your momma ask for her money back
Cause the dirt on your tongue is blacker than night

I don’t want no more self-disguise
Always convincing me I’m too this
I don’t want to pluck out my own two eyes
To blindly miss the portents I miss


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Butler Summer

Fan blades
propel sleep, but not rest, through body
White noise
purifies serrated desperation below
Long cord
delineates too many chances or the solution
Wood chair
undermines earnest pursuit of envy
Book shelf
showcases literacy least of all
Soft sheets
come second to that half damp skin
Mem ry
spins shit into infallible gold


A Fine Thread

He let the spiders
crawl up my arms
and told me to dance.
I was a widow, too—
bargaining with a ghost
I could taste,
chastened by drought,
monitored by cautious
The god who built me
a universe
also broke the sun.


The Nature of Almost Everything

He prepared their dinner
with a devotion
that once belonged solely to her,
her most prized and hated possession.
He turned the animal’s flesh
over in his mouth,
where a reservoir of praise
and never-have-I-evers
once sprang from his tongue,
a divine pool of security.
   (It was just the condensation
                  of hot air
      encountering cold truth.)


A Source of Blame

Rest your darkness in my steady hands,
while the day is radiant and my fingers nimble,
and I will pull it apart like fresh warm bread,
to eagerly feast upon the blockages of legacy
that leave you crooked, naked, drunk . . .
Just to keep you company.

Let frailty seep through your still bones,
while the night is nimble and my throat dry,
and I will sip it like Jacksonville moonshine,
to feel the instant, sweeping fire that consumes
all the good intentions before they’re known.
Just to keep me honest.