Meanwhile, 95 miles south by south(l)east,

This poem has straight
dark hair and ponytails
and idle dimples. It’s simple,
really: just add a few monks chanting
in {prig}Latin, a satin stir

-fry of peppers and mush
-rooms of lingered lawn mowers
(the scent of fresh-cut summer).

This poem has no spleen,
but have you seen its appendix?
It’s recently had a sea/tea scan,
a long and lingered plan to sneeze its
nasties, Ecclesiastes style.

Smile. You’re on candied
camera, with a gilded flask
casket of robin’s egg blues
(sing it, sister.)


It’s all quad
-ri-literal, really:
yearning for a better map.

(re: treat)
……………..let’s take a nap.


‘nother one for Shawna

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3 Responses to Meanwhile, 95 miles south by south(l)east,

  1. I love a candied camera … yummy

  2. Em says:

    south by southleast … I adore you

    Dam-nit, that entryway into this poetic house is so flipping kick-AZZ.

    “a satin stir” … Yes please. I could really use a good night of sleep. It’s been so long.

    “sea/tea scan” … Love.

    OMGoodness, are you serious?! “to sneeze its
    nasties, Ecclesiastes style” … I’m out of expletives! (Must read dictionary more.)

    “Smile. You’re on candied
    camera, with a gilded flask” … This will totally end up being me, I’m sure. I hope I’m at least awesome by then so I won’t even give a flip. Haymitch-style. Whatever MFers. Stick it up your …

    Hey, there’s a song for that:

    “(sing it, sister.)


    I’m trying. Really I am. But THIS keeps coming out of me. 😦


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