Here is the first poem I wrote on the Reddit Public Access network. I'm curious about how well the work stands on its own, without the gimmick of the broadcast itself.
March 11th 2021, Early in the AM. RPAN Broadcast.
Less than a minute in and the horns start,
a prohibition house band, angular swing and a
hopscotch cinch about the waists - fold your beard
up inside your pores, child, you look like a man.
I toke in full view of my landlord,
indoors, trying to hide my stubble from
the seagulls, dialing in from polygons
across the flat earth globe.
What can I say to those whom
crypts and zoos are one and the same,
Those redjays crowwalking sideways,
Lit like a Griswald Christmas they come asking me
The blue ballest of them all,
for advice on cutting pink paper.
I’ve pawed at scissors, sure as sunlight
but sweaty palms are oasis rains:
you can only dry your hands so many times.
A head above sand never waits for ants
so here they come, I honey my complexion
With a punch-able sunscreen, my countenance
Conspiratorial as a museum guard, a slouch-
rate savant of the arts. “Now that my
priesthood has re-absorbed my cheeks,
allow me to lob a feminine cough
my best impression of a virgin/matriarch.”
My words a curtain for a pin drop.
I stand beside Nighthawks, a inky song
I recalled you preferred. Since your visit
And my new position I request
to sentinel the drunk bird often.
When it snows flakes falls on my uniform,
the stained glass letting the
foux-rehearsed reprisals,
a watched summer only simmers.
(Meanwhile In the Chat)
An acorn wants me to water them,
clean my bong, so others can keep
transparency as well. A sort of
ouroboros rosy rung, and I dig,
man, I dig, I’ve crunched the numerology before.
But a soul who likes their bong dirty is certainly damned,
aren’t they? I smoke for the taste.
A southern cat comes round about Pound,
you could set your watch to it.
Mr. Vapor vainly pops
Behind a cloud and
Asking to see chemical
Stains on my lungs,
Fair enough in times that try.
(Smash back to the Museum)
Across from Nighthawks is Dorian,
His leer clapping the snowfall to a close ---
I’m no art institute guard,
a mere poseur, unfit even
for federal pay. A gendered top hat
Alms for ethers, astral prance:
this here top hat, ma’am, it’s tinfoil.
A
Poe
Boot
A) Licker B)
Will be W.C.W
Silver or Sign of
tongued in adulting
the Land of Williams is
Lincoln. Truly warmer
I sell flags with Blue Ridge blood stains
Call Rick Coaster at (696-) for tails
And pics.
“Leaches the lot of us,” I say.
