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Blue Boy
A blue baby boy nearly Breaks his mother with the birth. A lazy looming, double moon Lingers above the hospital room. Baba’s babes off the coast Boast that they know the most. There is the child, Yellow and mild. Barely born, and wild. Apophenia I fell for The brush of hair, To reveal the thinnest chain. With an empty stare And how quick a smile fades. Then it ended as it began; Just as easy, With a head turn. The Blue Hour Why did everyone’s dog die the same year Ain’t it clear The sound crushing fear I mourn that season lost The winter I couldn’t get across How cold it really felt Oh this coat is too thin Under the sunset subtle skin Oh who the hell let you in Without asking For Chadron, From the island of Nebraska When I see you, All I can think of is food and fire. From the tops of your yellow butter hills That drip oil into cast iron black roads. It spills from the pan, soaking into the grass and chewing tobacco Feeding those sausage finger trees. This is a well-fed, meaty forest, of cows and food processors. A thin river of thick gravy bisects the overflow of land. Meanwhile, a cigar car nearly cleans the sidewalk, And the accident reeks of barbeque. Somewhere a burning belly of Busch Light Bellows itself out into the night. Tips from the poet’s muse (a love letter slipped under the door) Don’t you dare compare me To a sunrise. Or A sunset. Or to flowers from the garden, In bloom or wasting away. Don’t say I’m the snow Or the rain. I don’t match any kind of color. Please don’t dream of me crying. Or, wonder where I wander. Just Don’t call me baby, just Don’t call me at all. |
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