Are your hands getting tired yet? Today's prompt: write a poem in honor of baseball's Opening Day! I'd write one about how my head must have a ball magnet inside of it, because no matter where I am, if balls are flying around (!), I'll be out cold before the seventh quarter. GOOOOOOOOOAL!
Now onto the poems!
Lake Sketch —For Brian Ang
What will impress the death cult? The beautiful, vacant
death cult? What will impress the mirror-writing lump,
water’s canto, her cinema,
commerce’s atomic center?
What will impress the cult of death?
The cult of holes, of clothes. The cult of sharp elbows.
The empress of the lake is here, all 90 degree angles.
Hello empress of the lake. She answers through her teeth of zeros, in geese.
To move five stones to the right is to enforce the odds. To pepper-spray a toddler in the springtime, Printemps Paris.
Everything doesn't need To smell like egg For your day to be shitty But it doesn't hurt Meanwhile the city Is not one for pity Still it feels good to ask
Maybe I should move To a permanent lunch The fulcrum of every day Balanced there you see What happens everywhere Doesn't stay there
Hey self here's an idea For your idea museum Let's forget we ever Breathed without singing Into each moment of Shirtsleeve weather