Today's poem is by Jason Whitmarsh
As the milkmaids do it, with aplombno ersatz,
beyond-the-fray attitude. The less you say
concerning my obsession with wax,
debutantes, and martinis, the better. How
else am I to make an impression? Even Pavlov
found his dogs to be a bit exaggerated. Like you:
good looking, maybe, but gimpy. A minor balloonist
hovers nearby, biding his time. He says rise, but you hear loss;
invention, and you strap wings to the projector,
jury-rigged with wire and plaster. You say your IQ
keeps climbing. You say, let's build a three-legged trap,
lift it into place on pulleys and gears, and catch so-and-so
making love to the wife. You never sleep past ten.
Not a man's at your beck and call but you lose him
ordinary fellows, all, with wingtips and snapped hearts. They scowl,
pout, or take up hobbies; most must learn to drink.
Quietly, the balloonist descends, his declared raj
raining brimstone on the sand, sundering the cacti,
stripping oases of shade and water. He wanted too much
to begin with; they dared not repeat it. (No one knew anything
unusual about anyone else, even with the lights off.)
Viewing times are on the even hours. The shutter's in place:
Watch for the second entrance, the tousled bed
(X-ray detective work on an unhappy public).
You've heard, then, the week's forecast? Sub-
zero temperatures, no lines at the Cinerama.
Copyright © 2009 Jason Whitmarsh All rights reserved
from Tomorrow's Living Room
Utah State University Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission
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