absent magazine

Poem

Today I ran, but not brilliantly.
My neighbor on a ladder, up painting her house.
It was hot, and things were greener and more
than usual I was sweating. Trail mix
and corn chips, the baby and her nap.
Is it romantic to say, Hyperion fell into me
and smashed my heart? Is it moreso to say,
Finally? Trying hard to concentrate,
I swatted a fly and missed
the sailing ship in the window.
My wife came home from work on time.
She was gleaming. Richlier burn
ye clouds.

Bewildermentor

The horse is not real
when it’s sitting in the palm of your hand—
no matter how much it naysays
that this is a lyrical ballad—
only minus the lyric and the ballad part,
minus the1798. When you find yourself weary
converse with starlings. Ask of them
everything and how to fly right,
then smash your bifocals, and horribly,
against them, grinding their gears
into bits of fine dust. Wallop and wonder!
Powder and pine! Walk out into the parking lot,
and notice what it feels like to be nowhere
in particular. Hello neighbor,
you’re a tiny yellow flower,
and I’m the guy holding up
the skies of America.