Kenton K. Yee ~ Six Poems

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 continuüm
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.