"...the lap dog’s triangular head at rest
facing us like an enormous blackened
sex."
More Perihelion:
BobSward's Writer's Friendship Series
A quick list to poets featured in this issue:
Ambition
Clutching hard to handouts tantamount to love
scrawled on a cocktail napkin stashed inside
a mother’s purse in lieu of watching us perform
as boredom shows, or few, or none, a ghost
scaling up that brick façade where three stone
busts preside—Whitman, Dickinson, Keats—
bolted as they are to a crumbling window ledge.
_______________________________________________________________ Woman With Dog, 1917
Meaty flowers plastered to a stuffed _______________________________________________________________ Target
Sun-bleached forelock poking out of a backwards
above both knees, the crotch mended with a patch.
from here to where you are, a bathrobe coiled
the place. The spot quote: staging the appearance
of tornadoes touching down near Disney World, all
across Times Square that summer before the sex _______________________________________________________________
crimson chair, her folded elbows
propped on a canine’s jackaled spine—
the lap dog’s triangular head at rest
facing us like an enormous blackened
sex. It made its way to the Midwest
nonetheless—a gift from Owen &
Leone Elliot who could spot a fair
Soutine. Imagine them looking at this
thing each night in that farmhouse
along the edge of the Iowa River
with a meat-and-potatoes mouthful
of corn right off the cob. No wonder
they had no choice but to give it up.
baseball cap. And it’s spring again—jeans torn
This morning’s sun lighting up the length of it
around your feet. Had wanted to say. Had loved
as disappearance. It’s spring again—a squadron
the world “Disneyfied,” or so you said slumming
stores closed—El Niño up against the West Coast.