Todd Colby

 

Dawn

Not the barren eagle

nor the salt fish kitten,

not the gash or the limp,

not the golden cake on the rim

of a gale, not hopeless and feverish,

not the strip of blue salted bing cherry

under her tongue (where I kissed it),

nor the whopper columns that shifted, 

not the welted light butter,

or the blanket of asphalt, not the silk 

pits gum, not sanka, not spinning lemons, 

nor grouchy mints. Not the

helium rings or the storm papers, 

just an old spacesuit

that became a satellite.

Bliss Cloud

The silver licorice is alive!

Chrome cleat and blister pack module

designed for space use only.

Comb the fat from my hair 

as we circle the sun. 

Gelatin muff, outer space sorrow, 

the beefy angel

is making it real, yo. Still

the air is tinted orange while dawn sparks

gray cavities of urban gunk 

strewn about on earth. I'll have all the eats,

find the bubble, kiss the bitter mist,

and jab you with corn cobs.

Remember: my factory dish

is metal and harmful, so each of you

with your lips, your anger, your cubicles,

are the delicate indicators 

of the coming disaster, so there.

Gushing

Do I have to peal this gunk 

from the gravity boot

so as to chum it off? Do I cuddle

the twits while putting shoes on them 

or do I make them sit to be squeezed by

pinching their feet glazed with sugar? 

All of them: forky porkers!

Like thunder alone will fill

their gills with wax, minky garbage

on their lacquered bones

times ten bangs for a fun house

twins in the ginkgo tree

tearing the leaves down in front

of the panic store. Razorback dazzles,

snack fakes, goals like crossing 

the street, like memory sticks,

like missing the stabber with a gush.