Monday, January 11, 2016

2 poems || Joe Milford


giant plastic tub of beef jerky on the counter as cashier talks about seeing Tom Petty live once.
burning sage over the burned down house seemed strange to me but she said it must need be.
in the closet, old ruddy bespeckled arms began to extend from the sleeves of shirts and jackets.
between two powerlines on the left side of the road the huge spiderwebs proudly glistened.
i could kill someone with innocence and i could introduce violence. this is how fruits ripen.
deprive everything of oxygen. watch the world panic. deprive everything of Christmas lights.
i inherited Lucregia Borgia. shot it until the muzzle melted and destroyed a national treasure.
evil squaw of a neighbor called animal control on us. we adorned the bottle tree for protection.
in the woods behind the homestead the mound of the old railroad wound like a serpent-god.
the bleached dog's skull rests atop the occult text on the black poetry bookshelf, a black tower.


i was full of ergophobia whittling mermaids from cedar and balsa on a porch amidst the cosmos.
we lost the leavining, sold out the reckoning; we wished for prudence and gave away to sea salt.
i have found that writing in the morning makes the herb garden flourish. i have found salience.
most of the evil of this place was the fact it was once an ocean. appalachian chains underwater.
landlord calls from his deerstand to check in. the heating unit died. saw my breath in the kitchen.
telemetry made this possible. shrooms made this possible. skunk brew made this possible. alms.
all you had to know about murder was that the wedding ring was found atop the compost heap.
red Georgia clay like the flesh of the earth asking me to make men and women from it. O glory.
my grandpa called them laundry bags. his parachutes over Germany with artillery. good man.
they found something unspeakable in a cave near my home. the government showed up. damn.

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