Stucked in a Buffle Zone

by Nada Gordon

A normal pandemic day,
with normal mushrooms,
and a brain coral tomb ornament.

Things fall in normal rivulets.
My face a powdered sugar substitute
hidden and masked in the wine mind.

I’m not used to the kitsune mask.
I burp Indian food into it,
then hum a feeble tune.

I want my poems
to have that lame feeling
like a game of checkers

have to put a word here

responding with palpitations
and a wild dismay
horning through the register

stroking the looseness
in a cicada’s ear

taking the iamb
out of ambition

to shun is dazzling
when you’re a rune and a hair
leafing through the old Nachtmusik

my duende
is friendly
but my negative capability
is something of a hillbilly

probably we can’t say that –
vajazzled groundhogs
peering out of a hat

checking my phone… as orchid
as a cockroach
dreaming in zoomtime

wait, my phone…

the lame feeling of chartreuse
drizzled with quillotines
in the hoary den

it’s just…organistic
in the bald hamper
with the singing chickens

I want to gnaw your leg…
but why?

I’ll lie on my side
like a liar

I’ll call a stork a stork,
shaking its head no
to defunding virus testing

I convert you
by turning you into a cow –
my free speech problem

Jesus? or
Hello Kitty?
Wait, I gotta check my phone

The arrangement
of these words –
cloves stuck in an orange

to cover up feculence

A clink – the faery
is blushing on the
polished guillotine

my brain moves
to the sound
of the air conditioner

the faery nests
in the air conditioner.
the world is fascinated

by its own depravity

it’s muggy and a bluejay’s screaming
and everything stinks of hydroxychloroquine
on the freedom from religion boat cruise.

sea pig, faceless fish, fangtooth, brittle star.
darling starling, arc of scallops, abyssal spider:
look monkeys swirling…in the soft surround

high up in muzak
I’ve got my tiger
I mean I love ya honey
but I still gotta sing my song

Last updated December 03, 2022