poets

Flu and a Great Cloche

These chronologically challenged fortune
cookies started life on my side
table. Covered my books, todo lists, tickets,
picks; bulged a drift against my lamp,

In the evening nuclear
waste prophesies burned
citreous through the wraps,

telling my past and present.
Delicate pins of red sulk
in plasma like blown glass. The
origami doomsayers

spilled onto my carpet. At times
I’m delirious enough
to think they’re

white roses, or spare
stars, forgetting that reactor
core balled in
threatening meltdown.

I’ve had thoughts of you, S.Lee.
How these chemicals have been
on my skin, my clothes, inside me.
Where are my super powers motherfucker?

If I were not thinking this
I’d swear I’d become object
set here to drip as
salt lamps, stalactites. Inmates

are warming,
have talked to me,
told me jokes.

Orange MK II has noticed
my voice tuned down
an entire minor third.

B I believe.
Asks if I’m into drone.
Sometimes, I say. This guy’s
alright says African

redwood hippopotamus.
And I wonder at his Brooklyn
accent, and absentee tail. I tell
him thanks. The ugly bowl

of pennies/misc. threatens blades
sometimes, but I’m not worried.
He’s mostly just pennies. Graduation
llama asks if I still write.

I am, I say.
Now? As we speak
Champ.

The grandmother clock
we salvaged from a dead woman’s home
asks me who am.

Atlas hatbox knows
very little of geography but a great
deal of the seasons,
and storm formations.

Doesn’t know how talking
about the weather became a
faux pas. Believes it to be
the closest thing to real

magic after art, the relative strength of ants,
and a great cloche.

And the Bad Poets

By Zachary D’mitri

perhaps

not bad,

but uninspired,

write about

how we’re beautiful

because we’re all made of stars.

And I think,

you stone cold

fucking prodigy.

You marvel.

You bright, shining

son of a bitch.

Only a brilliant genius

could turn the stars ugly.

©zacharyd’mitripoetry