Five Poems Your Momma Likely Wouldn't Whip Up


There’s no Turk quite like a stewing
curly-haired Turk, and no question of it,
such a boiling and bareheaded fez boy
makes cannibals of us all, though this
guy might effortlessly have been sultan
of your Ottoman corpora delicti, for
our dude’s one shut-eyed needle floating
fast on currents of dark, dark ink being
eagerly piped over riverbed carpeting.


Warsaw, Warsaw, what the doctor saw
When you search the brothels of Cracow
For oysters purple, succulent, and tart.
O let’s not fool ourselves, let’s not wait
For freight trains to jump a rusting track:
I had to have my neighbor’s sister (a “no”
Answer some straying sound without
My stethoscope) while your pinkish melons
Flash a double, constant treat; your taffeta
Negligee this out-of-town mask minus real
Facial features; your juices some flavorless
Vodka escaped from a wee, wee fountain;
And Warsaw a city of gauze and tape
Where the sun’s reluctant to wink or blaze.


Why, yes, of course (how often do I have to say it),
There is fantastic sport fishing in the Seychelles,
Tenements of boneys and bananas, a community
Where sunup and sundown are everyday announced
By hidden cornets. (I myself think they’re blown
By big-lipped cheaters staying on the lee side
Of dark gray cloud mobs and nasty escort winds,
But what-the-flying-fuck do I really know, and so
I’ll grant I could be as constantly wrong as some
Senior and demented paperboy whose tossing aim
Is any family’s east-facing porch, but whose honest-
To-goodness landing spot keeps turning out to be
His grossly over-titted wife’s new-cut peony hedge.)


I like to think I’m screwing the strong east wind
that pushes through my screened-in porch
before the sun gets high enough to bloody
my neighbor’s barberry hedge. Oh if that long
hedge weren’t there—i.e., if there were no thorns
to claw my sex—I’d likely tell the breeze to fuck
itself, and I’d bull-rush my neighbor’s bushes
and be rapping against her sliding door. (Yet be
assured, I’d have sweet bridal vestments slung
across my arm and a Mendelssohn march a-gurgling-
up-and-out my whiskery throat.) But the hedge
is there, ‘twas my neighbor who planted the mother,
and so the best I’ll ever feel of a morning
is to have east wind pulling the waist of my person.


‘Wanna go water witching, fleur de lis, ‘wanna divine
in yonder field while our motel maids cart the floors
and spruce up our economy room? I sure as hell want to,
and with crackers aplenty in all my pockets and a flask
of merlot tucked under my briefs, I think we can dowse
for the better part of the afternoon and even wedge unto
evening, since things won’t get dark, I promise, since it’s
the planet’s orbit (and not me) that lets shit stay light
till nearly eight o’clock. Oh I want my hazel rod whiplashing
down like a just-spent dick, or dropping fast if I get creamed
by an angry farmer throttling forward in his quiet tractor,
a French hayseed so foaming and ferocious about the lips
I’d never get fair chance to brace for the discovery
of an ocean underneath my shoeless feet, a tranquil place
the world could add to its seven seas, and maybe a realm
overcrowded with floating burlesquers (i.e., those who
have been here before). But if you want, pichou, your hand
can now grab either side of my rod. (It’s not that I’m so big
into sharing, but you just don’t seem able to whittle
your own forked stick). However, please understand,
there’s no guarantee at all you’ll feel even a misty spray,
much less uncover the world’s long-lost eighth sea.

William C. Blome wedges in-between Baltimore and Washington, DC. He once swiped an MA from the Johns Hopkins University Writing Seminars, and his stories and poems have appeared in fine little mags such as Poetry London, Amarillo Bay, PRISM International, Bangalore Review, Salted Feathers, and The California Quarterly.


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