i.
whatever
ii.
not today
iii.
i thought we agreed
cruise ships
were
for sissies
&
the point
of Nasa
is the same as SSRIs
for those
unwilling
to notice
iv.
the sound
of
the garage door
opening
made auto
by wiring
i do not
understand
v.
are you going or coming?
vi.
will you pick up some milk
on
the way
home?
vii.
just because
the seven
names
for children
i created survived
& we
lost
yours truly,
viii.
i thought we agreed
ix.
agreed
x.
we
xi.
i
everybody knows this is nowhere
the dog
ripples
his tongue
over teeth & lips
as a stream
across random stones.
a moment is only
as brief
as our disengagement
from imprinting
allows.
are we alone?
no, i am
looking at it.
are we
alone?
Proposal (a pineapple thrown into the Seine)
the meaning
of events
saving us
from a riot.
look to the hefted
mountains
in this thistled
spring
of showers
of malady &
the elegance
of just trying
to tell another
person they matter.
the day is ending.
the day is almost over.
i’m wide awake,
ready to introduce
a dragon
to these lands
of shot-gunned
stationary.
Proposal 6
of former
thoughts
in other
lives.
a mug cupped
to ear
sounds of
an Atlantic
muffled
by sawdust.
a taxonomic
defense
for haha,
the openness
in being
mortified
& feeling
alright
with the treatment
of animals.
you act in service
of a Byzantine panoply,
a simulacra
of gods.
our creations
tail us
through
dimensions,
invite a worry, a sorrow,
a cork
in bottles
untrapped by messages,
floating, briefly,
on the front porch.
dereliction hiding
rusted cutlery
& an insufficiency
of bandages
Michael Prihoda is a poet, editor, and teacher living in central Indiana. He is the editor of After the Pause, an experimental literary magazine and small press. In addition, he is the author of five poetry collections, the most recent of which is The First Breath You Take After You Give Up (Weasel Press, 2016).