Friday, July 24, 2015

I Don't Need A Gun To Shoot You

There was going to be
a whole poem here
about projectiles

but vomit (also a projectile!) came and I realized:
I don't need to shoot anything.
I don't need to blast a damn thing.
I just make you curl over laughing

and connect an oxygen tank into your mouth
when you can't breathe anymore.

This is the first of a series of poems beginning with 'Actually'. My expectation is that there will only be two more.

I Make Cat Fiction for You, Which has nothing to do with cats.

Originally titled: When You're Strange, New Planets Come Out

"I encourage you to be even more weird than you are today," said my friend, as she held my hand steady against the remote control.

Internally I was going insane. There was no way she could really understand the goings on I was undergoing on. First of all--why is there even a woman and I'm in a relationship with her? Since when did we get that posh?

"Now, pay attention, because I want you to keep being as strange as you are," I said into my little poem book, which only supported about 18 large characters at best on each line.

"Don't plagiarize me you bastard!" she cried, and started to actually weep. I covered what I had written about her, and approached:

I took her hand away from her other hand, and paid attention to the hand I took. "This is the hand that I first saw", I told her, showing her how her fingernails were so perfect and plentiful in their cuticles. We rotated our hands together, sometimes reminiscing witches, sometimes V/H/S afterthoughts, but always in synchronization.

I was slapped off because she believed I had been trying to hypnotize her, but of course I claim I was always an honest intention.