“Three Poems”
Here First
The day I saw the tissue with a little spot of blood in the middle of the concrete steps near the river, I also saw a man in a full gray suit mowing the lawn. Think about it. Days go by in which tissues are bloodless and men are casual. That day, too, I felt a great terror when faced with the steady hum of AC units protruding from hundreds of windows. It was like the sublime had daytripped to me, and I was the coat-tailed man standing on the precipice of cloud-choked peaks. And here we are, circling back to men in suits.
I’ve been trying to feel something for a whole year now. I’ve written prompts to prompt a new idea: Idea drapes itself in colorful scarves; Idea attempts to climb out of dug pit; Idea smokes a fat nice joint and really feels itself; Idea eschews the power of three. Idea reads a poem by Mark Strand about his penis slash how he’ll take a woman by storm; Idea understands how little ideas matter. Idea thinks you can interpret “little” in any way you want, though you should be careful, you must always take every precaution, and imagine every future person looking back through a portal, their eye color a pigment your cones might never in your lifetime comprehend.
Hurricane Suppression
cool beans, we suppressed a universe
just as i spilled the nectar-colored polish to the floor
i suppressed the universe of my spillage
with sharp-smelling reversal i avoided
mentioning the hurricane to friends
in its path i forgave all they owed
and all i wanted and to be honest
outside of the equation of desire forgot them
entirely and they sat inside, emotions unriled
meanwhile, parading through a muck of air, i named
all the things i better make time to enjoy
cicadas, caladium, night walks
the universe in all its bursting forth
a text that says “text HELP for help”
Incinerated
Y’all myopic af I CAN’T have a crush, the world
is BURNING, “Hungry Like a Wolf” by Duran Duran
is playing as my jolty body flickers across
a surveillance camera screen holding a plastic bag
of celery. Neither humans nor animals can hear
the high-frequency vibrations of misplaced concern,
which of course is the sound of the neighborhood
incinerator as it shoots your plastic into the sky
or powers powerless buildings. At one point I would’ve
felt the energy threads between front and back seat, would’ve
could’ve closed my eyes and discerned your heat signature.
But so hot is it already, all around us, that finding your heat is like
watching you in your green-striped shirt in front of a green screen.
You and all your selves vanish
one by one, in strips.
Kristen Steenbeeke
has two gray cats named David and Pocket. Both of them are widely published.
Twitter: @ksteenbeeke