I've said it before, but I'm giving up poetry.
Dan Fielding’s Blow-Up Doll Expands
There is a circus clown frozen in volcanic ash
in the bedroom next to my wrestling magazines.
Behind him they found an old peanut butter and
jelly sandwich and a half-smoked cigar.
They are here. They have arrived.
(Lance Goodthrust’s heart stops.)
Someone swings at the mailbox with a baseball bat.
It’s Jesus, King of Kings.
There goes the neighborhood.
Sipping Iced Tea in Ashland, Massachusetts
They were made for each other, these crazy kids,
even though they were siblings.
She was three feet tall and never bragged about it.
He appreciated that, but secretly hated it.
A pterodactyl flew into the porch and she fainted.
She fainted a lot this sister of mine, he thought.
I’m sitting here brandishing only this fly swatter
and she’s out cold.
Our insurance doesn’t cover attacks from extinct creatures.
What if I just ran away and let the bird eat her?
From his bedroom in the attic
he kills the dog
he thought it was Mohammed Atta.
The Tall, Elegant Chest of Drawers
I left the computer game I was playing on the beanbag chair.
You identified a hole in the middle of my chest.
Kicking German around the living room,
I fell asleep in my chiffonier.