poem: “Socialism” is Currently the #1 Trending Word on Merriam-Webster.com
My brain ekes in the dark without
a flashlight. Holding a banana to ward off
scurvy and North Sea pirates. I live under
a wrecked ship’s hull. From the ceiling it rains
rats. I eat them. First, we talk. In my telescope.
The Dey waves a silver hand. For the seraglio.
For the Danes to send the goods. I will plunder.
The Dey already lounges beneath a copse
of umbrellas. Whither these umbrellas? The blue floor
on which I sleep lolls me. Wetly. Varmints
fall into my parasols. Into Elsinore.
poem: Arboretum
Inside I bloom.
Adroit fingers
make signs. Sinister
signs? I don’t know
the names overgrown. With breath
I share a bench. My blue friend,
breath. Path rustic enough for
believability. Path’s stealth
manicurists remain hidden. Division
of mysteries unconsidered. Scent-
struck. I will not always be here
with backpack and army
of notecards. Wandering toward
sex. Labeling things. Some
soft. Some
hidden
juniper
gong.
Matt Broaddus is a Cave Canem fellow and author of a chapbook, Space Station (Letter [R} Press, 2018). His poetry has been published in Fence, Foundry, PANK, and Heavy Feather Review. He lives in Lakewood, Colorado and works at a public library. He tweets sometimes @mattbroaddus.
BURNING HOUSE PRESS 
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