Bubba Country
Nineteen and drivin my fly ass whip,
to Malvern to visit my grandparents.
Could taste freshly killed bird and home
fries cooked in a skillet cast in 1914.
Close Call
I’m still not sure I really saw the car—shiny red
on a day that was a long green nap—go airborne.
The Wild Animal
‘The Wild Animal’ comes out of a project I worked on during the summer of 2008, in which I made myself write at least one ‘poem’ every day and I didn’t allow myself to look back or revise until I had reached 200.
Insult to Injury
I find an old air gun
and a can of ammo
down in the basement
in a cardboard moving box,
along with some other stuff,
flotsam from previous lives.
Wetness: An Assay
Take a square, a circle.
Flip it over, ask it to rotate: its face stays the same.
An isosceles triangle
doesn’t choose which of its sides.