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he runs mac ‘n’ cheese through a coffee cone
I run mac ‘n’ cheese through a coffee cone
but make no special shout-out to irrelevance
it’s Thursday and my boy’s gone
ants slip across a countertop
tonight I’m my own reason
for registering objects onto life
stars, go be the spangles
in someone else’s dancehall
a simulacrum of collective action
insensate at this distance
while it can be bright for someone
tonight I’m my own Dresden
with the fires, and the pen that writes it down
by Rodney Koeneke
Beekeeper
The
thrash determines a maximal rate
spilling
your liquid soliloquy
into
pathways your friends recognize
muscular,
not envisioning a sequence
until
Jasper pipes up, unfortunate crooner
doomed
to synthesize approximate voice
that
we in the bleachers sort of pine for
until
love becomes ventroliquism
I
didn’t mean for it to end this way
bodies
on the fence, a swinging ceremony
lionized
as “the godfather of lyric”
until
a nearby truck unloads our vegetables
hey
you sitting on your neighbor’s porch
something
set the planets in their motion
while
I keep recommending the wrong book
the
painter grinds her powder, desolate
the
sun until it hands off godliness
to
a distracted order called the day
or
what we made of it, a bird that falls
toward
ground that even faster falls away.
by John Beer
