Ken Rumble
2 Poems
An Interesting Honeymoon
Boxglove and why the word tobacco?
It’s hill of stress, rhyme, embrace
of alphabet’s beginning, initial cross, and,
in cursive, tell-tale trail – munch
of cereal – boasts and talks of stairmaster,
chain link fences and the occasional stint
as an undertaker. It’s not clear yet –
the middle, yes, but the same is
x’s, y’s, o’s, letters of tree hearts –
line them up with the axe, strike,
wood split into love triangles.
Neptune’s agents returned to the den –
the din and stress burns blue, then
the color of a pine between two pines,
set back out of full sun –
not done yet, but ten years out
how does it look? As if the narrator
broke a belt, took an afternoon to
smell the roses, looked up as the
tree fell – oak and so many –
phlox and felony – say so long
to the grouse.
Ha Ha Ha
Advance – move past the corners
to tines and tensile strength, a broad
plate like a saucer, like that ET thing,
you know? Like when people do things –
I’m not stupid – I can see you.
Four apples on the ledge, a blind curve
and motorcycles – a fan of wedges
under the rim job you bought and thought
were tires. Peanut butter amoebas –
pale bumps beneath the skin: taken out,
hung on the line, reeled into the sun,
forgotten for days, sat on by birds,
explored by bugs, taut by wind
till it snapped like shot, and worn
again.
Or pomegranate, that repeating
constellation of sugar and nut. And here
the lawyers language at the perception.