poems

Style

April 23, 2013      Everette Maddox
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On page 270 of the fourth

volume of Proust (‘Cities

of the Plain’) one hits

the first and last sh__t,

carefully woven in there

where it belongs, along

with everything else.

How I admire and envy

such style–such minute

glittering perfection of

texture; like the tiny

threads in my friend Lee

Metzger’s Yves Saint Laurent

coat he loaned me on his

honeymoon balcony, I was

so cold and covered with it.

 

She Was Something

March 19, 2012      James Hayes Nichols
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Out of the dark

she came into the room

unlit, dusty,

magnolia in the windows

briars in the paths

 

the windows were open

and the air was wet

and cool

it had a taste,

she could taste it—

cool and grassy

bellpepper crisp

 

on top of the dresser

the mirror shone

nothing

on top of the dresser

the mirror fell over

 

the broken glass was

mirrorheat

the shattered glass

could cut

 

her feet pitterpattered

child-like, little

feet pat pat pat

quick like elves

on the take

and dreaming too

fast to know the

hurt

 

the moon shone from

a cloudbreak,

red footprints

on the woodfloor

and her voice

laughing atop

the shatters

Jeremy

January 9, 2012      James Hayes Nichols
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You look up at the sky and there’s all this primary fruit color and flavor, like a goddamned Fruit Roll Up on a Saturday morning of yore and you’re there at the streetcorner with your littlekid attempt at a yardsale selling a bunch of crap you shouldn’t have been selling to a bunch of jerks who shouldn’t have been buying, a bunch of cheap crap-plastic toys and knickknacks and gewgaws – that smelled like what the kid section at Kmart smelled like: Promise of a fun day. Promise of mudpuddle splash and dodging motorists and cavorting to the sounds of – wait, it sounded like this: wheeeee and the soft squeeze of breath gushing from puffed-out cheeks and the cotton candy somnolence of a little kid’s dream, a pink-tinted pink-shrouded dream of a better time that was always so far ahead it was thousands of miles away and therefore remote as movies at the matinees the mulletheaded dikey nonetheless sweet daycare ladies would drag the daycare children to, and the daycare children got to eat popcorn and drink soda and watch the matinee movie at, like, eleven in the morning – Carebears, STARE!! – and there was that one kid Jeremy, who was a little dunderheaded and dumb and he looked kinda like a cavekid, who ate way too much popcorn and puked it all up to the left of where you were sitting and even as an idyllic four-year-old you were disgusted and disturbed and it ruined your day and you couldn’t focus on Carebears, STARE!! over the revolting buttered bile streaming down the sloped redpainted concrete floor of the matinee theater and neither could the other kids and the girls began crying and it was a real mess and in your disgust you still found the nerve to point and laugh at the crying girls, until the sweet mulleted daycare ladies had enough and herded the children out of the theater even though Jeremy was chuckling like a little dunderhead chucklehead and none of the children would look at him or talk to him the rest of the day – playground pariah – and the sweet mulletheaded daycare ladies wouldn’t give Jeremy a snack at snacktime and he complained and kicked and pouted and threw a temper tantrum – jerk  – and made himself a raving nuisance till the ladies made him sit in the bathroom with the door closed like a little jerk and all the children laughed because Jeremy was a clown, a dumb slow Eeyore with a blonde bowlcut…

 

Jeremy had a bowlcut

and a stripedshirt

 

was dumb like

the way kids think

 

his dad got shot

somewhere in Panama

 

we never saw

Jeremy after that

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