MURMURATION OR BOONDOGGLE
The meat in the pool—
The rodent pecks the cat—
The cat bleeds the bird—
The bird drinks the dew—
We’ve all seen this episode before.
The cookie is red, the cookie is blue.
The meat is actually bread.
The bread’s beet red.
Red parakeets are adorable.
Speaking of doors, who let the dog out?
They make good mops.
Go mop the pool.
~
STARFISH
A two-legged reindeer is a sign of progress.
Who can’t use a hat rack?
Even now, I don’t believe
in snow. Reindeer antlers
mounted on a pole don’t cascade.
They’re majestic though.
Jellyfish look like antlers.
What’s in a jellyfish?
You say jello, I say tomato.
A jelly without a fish is creativity.
Let’s call creativity a star.
When you want a star, make a wish.
Wish for a fish-flavored snowball.
It may shoal with you, sway with you.
~
MY PRIVATE MOON
Alone in the dark
looking out the window
down on the lunar surface
for the captain’s return.
Sirens escalate, fade, and escalate.
The only other signs of life:
yellow mites pocking the sky.
I lower a plastic Jack-o-lantern
on a string out the window
for rock samples.
Only the ultra-lightweight mask
made of Woolworth plastics
stands between me
and instant exsanguination.
~
THE MATHEMATICIAN’S PEN
She laid me 5 feet
from her bed last night. Her cover quakes
with each cough. I’ve bled pages for her.
I’ve entered her ears. She knew without counting
the wall outside the window has 719 bricks.
How? Why? For what purpose?
The maple cock-a-doodle-dood. The wind the wind
the dun / the reds / the yellows / the shadows
5 pages / 13 coughs / 1 cup / 1 teabag
light steam / no steam.
As always, alone.
At last she lowers my nib. I bleed
sway / bleed / swivel / bleed / blot.
I stare and stare at our blood-wild rage,
drips / blots / scratches / buds
branches and twigs
worming all over the page.
Fractal fractal fractal! and I forget
if beauty / truth were blackberry or moth.
~
OBSESSION / DESTINY
Get in at four to prep the store.
Toast a muffin at six
as they unlock the doors.
Plop a cutter on the grill.
Crack an egg into it.
Drop water, simmer.
Pile the egg on the muffin bottom,
grilled ham / melted cheese
on top of it.
What’s on top? The muffin top.
Wrap the sandwich with care.
You have this down to a proof
and could replicate it a hundred times
each day til Easy Street
if you want.
But you’re 58.
Cooking is just your living.
You live to create!
Your sandwich has 5 layers.
5 is prime and every
number odd and prime
contains the letter ‘e’,
like one / five
memory / forget.
Feed the bee and bet the beef,
remember has 3.
Your PhD is far / has none,
but primes are unforgettable.
You won’t give up. There’s no
greatest prime, no deadline.
~
AUTOBIOGRAPHY
Inside these lines lurk autocomplete
construing the vernacular
of my hesitations,
its syntaxes pulsing the blood
beneath my pupils.
Time and light for signs:
line count / turn / backflip.
Ampersands climb a continuum
of red balloons.
Help Wanted:
autoreaders
wicker basket provided
~
Kenton K. Yee recently placed poetry in Constellations, The Threepenny Review, Rattle, The Indianapolis Review, Plume Poetry, Hollins Critic, and Pembroke Magazine, among others. An Iowa Summer Poetry Workshop alumnus and former Columbia University faculty member, he writes from northern California.