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Kim Goransson - 2 poems

3/7/2016

1 Comment

 
Picture
THE REAL BABY

My baby is real
I know because I wear it
like an accessory
going to the store
Its mouth opening and closing
all real-like
Its little fat fingers pinching

Oh baby, baby oh
People seeing I have a real baby
make faces and point and laugh
Go mind your own bleeping
business I say
and swing my claws
Have you never seen a real baby before?
Then my baby starts to cry
No not you, I say
never you

When nothing happens 
I chew the pine needles 
I put my mouth 
on the baby’s mouth
so it can eat
Its eyes big and hungry
My baby smells of rotten food
and something else
I can’t remember

Will my baby live?
Looking through the window
into the river’s hungry indifference
I am not so sure

My baby is my dream and also my body
answering to a cruel gravity
aching in me
My baby senses when I am
having a bad day

“A body is the manifestation of a dream”
my baby says on days like this
“A dream is the impossibility of a body”
I don’t know what to think
or how
when it starts up

I hold my baby up in the screaming daylight
I bandage the scars
My baby I say oh
My baby​

***
WRITING ON OTHER PEOPLE’S COMPUTERS
​


I find a house I like
and stake it out
and when they leave
to do whatever people do
in this shitty world this shitty beautiful
tragic world of shit
I sneak in
through a backdoor or window
sometimes I walk right in
the front door
something is always unlocked
there is always a way 
into
America's grimy little
dark-knot heart
America's finely polished
porn museum
if an apartment, I like to stand 
on the balcony 
and smoke a cigarette
and pretend like 
I'm going to jump
oh no help! I’m falling!
then find the family computer
I like a good family computer
so much better
than a private computer
I like a good solid stationary computer
not a laptop
who can write on those
floppy-flappy Devices of Evil?
I like a screen with a big happy photograph
of some family when I write
in the background
I like the folders
with names on them
maybe I get online
look through their history
because they say 
every poem needs a history
then I write
for five minutes or so
without stopping
whatever
comes out
goodandbadtogether
something about
the crisp cut of morning
something about 
how I love you more than
piles of leaves
until dead, dry, shiny
another poem
comes out
useless and wrong,
afterwards
the deep and profound 
sense of 
shame and failure
like a drug
I like to spread out
on a nice big 
king size bed
and recuperate
I like to get under the sheets
I like to read what they read
but honestly
not many people read
honestly
most people are
fucking idiots
so mostly I just lay there
For Poetry
1 Comment
John M. Bennett
3/26/2016 12:13:41 pm

is there a way to see previous posts? You were going to run some of my things back in Feb., but did you? can i see them if you did? plus other things you've put up?

Reply



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