They Are No Longer Friendly.
I love the powderpages,
goodgood yes so sweet and yellow
in the lighthouse,
I am addicted to this milk.
I have silver
I have gold and anemia,
the blood of littlelamb
who is my king.
I will play
any instrument you can create,
if you will watch me
(I will run down to the water).
Annnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnd something not-mine that I love:
Untitled Poem [Unslide the door]
by Joshua Beckman
Unslide the door,
uncap the lazy little coffee cup.
The pasty people must be part of the dinner.
And a city turns its incapacity in,
foolish city. She was naked
and her halo all crushed against
the pillow while she slept, but I
didn’t care. Wake and totter.
Place a hand over your mouth,
a hand over another.
A killing pain, a bag all organized,
an inch of skin along your leg.
It’s like they kept making babies
and stopped making baby whistles.
Doable, yes, but here they
teach us something different.
It’s a battery. It’s a garden.
The glass box in which the lettuce grew
was broken by nasty raccoons
and we turned the other cheek.
The sun does rise and melt the frost,
the frost in little drops does fill
the empty lettuce, and in this way
the world is truly nourished.
No incredible silence, no
intangible calorie, just
bad raccoon in a good world.
Just coverless table and
silent drape awaiting breakfast.
Imagine how mean people
can be in dreams, and how
kind sleeping seems later.