A Public Sphere for Poetry, Politics, and Nature
Frank The Balloon Man
Honestly, he hated children. Hated their laughs and the miniature gaps of their smiles. Hated the clutching need of their fingers. He hated the parents. The ones who told their children what to say as if each was the conduit of a wish. And the ones who ignored their children, completely, as if each was a subject they never thought to master.
What he loved was the balloons. The feel of each in his hands, on his fingers. He loved the squeaks as he twisted shapes from intentions. And he loved the balloon animals. All of them. Each one fresh from an Eden, with a string leash which almost led back.
A Very Specific Curse
May grammar make a tight leash around you. Babel descend on your tongue. Your dentures slip into whistles. Those whistles your only music as you are called to dance, dance. And you learn love can be flammable as you forget every star you ever thought to touch.
The Monk’s Couch For Two
The monk gave up women and married god. Then he gave up god and married a bottle. The bottle was dull green, round on the sides like a store bought cookie, and flat, flat, flat on the bottom. The bottle made him laugh more than women or god ever did. At night, the monk would sit on one side of the couch and rub his feet and paint his nails. The bottle would sit on the other side and pretend to watch television. The monk liked sumo wrestling and home improvement shows. He would talk about all the places he wished to visit. As he got older, he learned of new places so his list became very long.
Copyright 2018 Mike James