[Realpoetik] ABRAHAM SMITH

[RealPoetik Magazine]

FROM *HANK*





($(%*^U&



because you can stand on

a rotten moose liver all

day in maine in a big old

rain and i still love you

sheet shake flea bane rain

would love to

fatten you up to eat

you? to heath bar you to

heath bar wrapper in

the shit of a bear just that just wrapper

and berry seeds doing

the spangle squat gear

out there in front of

god and everybody because

bears are not toilet people

bears are honest americans we void everything

behind a white flag and a toilet’s

conversation with a septic

stopped outside

lost a whisker off the hair shirt of truth

with a truck with a man

made his fortune hauling

shit spits outs his window

lady didn’t see it fly

come home rust kids

with the papers to buy

the aerials of their farms

took the yearling flight

it’s nice to see us high

it’s good for conversation

that’s where we are at

guess

where’s my heart?

barn or silo or house like

an eyelid on a sheep sly

little seagull with a belly

like a barn where were you born?

like a shoe in the road dozers

the mind toward bouldering

the septic pump bill in one

leap over the flaming candle kitchen table

that’s his revelation

there’s shit for money

i been thinking why don’t i build

houses with windows designed

to open out to pines

shallow roots sandy soil a good hard wind

and my windows would go the further

god bless the ten twenty ants with their thirty

forty legs stuck on

nostalgia’s sucrose cement

like eyelashes in honey in the car

finish wrecker sap off a creaky creaky snap snap pine

but then seeing goes south as ya grow older

still there’s a sandbar in every deep promise

so my windows take you further over time

right now pine sap candle slaps

them sapsuckers

hanging out there by willow

never call your kid by the name of a sad tree

parked by them damn dick drip pines what’s

the capital of thailand see and then i

kick you in the balls

with a jag of blind eye

and a pack of burdock cheroots my i

is in this idea i i.d. the line of them that picket

to bring back that window tax you’d think

as the kids fatten we’d be heading

that way anyway houses like vinyl beats

living in an elegy for trees and get this

the vinyl squeaks in a good wind a safe

cracking song guy’s getting paid good

to board up your seeing’s seats and this one

channel up high like 200 to show

what goes on outside it’s four guys with guns

a bird one poet guy or gal can’t tell

the channel’s like an ultrasound what

swings low? that a simile prone pencil

or a pack of smokes you save from

the rain with the denim lid on a pocket

and a bold cupped hand

there by the channel that shows you the freeway

old men can’t sleep wonder would the taillights

would the red lights light red if my eyes

didn’t burn for the gal in the grocery

maybe 22 that’s a gun am i fit for the

charnal or the carnal that’s a wash the

price of doing business with an indoor

flame try ombudsmen with burning sticks

milling in the library parking lot

touch a cloud tickler

tickling the prostates on them chinese

fireworks pointed out over the river

lord my heart is stuck to my ear

and my ear is just a wrinkly

extension of fear of

breaking bones on a radio

a western torture a fallen

horse dust was a breath mint

crunched by teeth evolution

took years to shorten our wider set

of hippo trending chompers

for fibrous matter once you are

into rotten meat and sliding

back up that cheetah tree teeth

slip small as half dissolved aspirin

as headstones via aerials

them three poking through

viva great uncle cretin clyde

tight as the space

between a rock and its mosses

two sister kin too took the

typhoid in ‘00 and ‘19 and

been mary huggers

ever since fat slob preacher

kicking my ass against a window

on a bus through curvy mississippi

i got a pistol and a bible in this

box and i am fixing to use either one

sooner stave the mary light

off the crouching passing

animal eye click of the

knife on the teeth his habit

when he’s thinking

bless the chord in the neck

of the running wolverine

plum the keep

deep the stranger

here we go

am i trying you

trying on coat or prolix?

here’s the butter so cold you

can’t cut it here’s a

grackle all spanish dancer by

the muffin crumb here’s an elegy

for gravel it goes ore villa one-stop shunt


*Abraham Smith* hails from Ladysmith, Wisconsin.  Action Books published his
*Whim Man Mammon* and will publish his* H**ank *in the coming autumnal
season.  Smith's recent performative laurels include stints at the Academy
of American Poets Rooftop Reading Series and Opium Magazine's Literary Death
Match NYC.  He teaches composition, literature, and creative writing at
University of Alabama.

-- 
RealPoetik
www.realpoetik.org
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