Lollygagger
I’m someone who can do one thing
a day, tops. Like pour out a warm lager,
turn a channel to static and eat shadows.
Upturned umbrella. Shoestring caught
in an escalator. What fangled rictus
tore your skin?
Would you rather have hand grenades for feet
or be saved from every trouble, even bathed?
I attempt to dismantle the Institution
end up as a minimum wage bellboy
waggling my bare pimpled tooter.
Before sentencing, dad accused me of thinking
I was some tough guy, like my tattoos would
help some pussy in jail
I was like, probably not. I did hope
they wouldn’t hinder aid, at least.
Long time ago. Like my tumor
which required 18 years
of follow up treatment
to build a trustworthy
semi-functioning relationship
with my own body I know
nothing about, really.
Can’t get a doctorate to figure out
what my damage really means.
Can disregard the dents and cruise
in the gleam of your own hazards.
Yes, what fangled rictus
tore whom.
#1 Fan of The Enemy
I pray up which may be north nor west
Mouth on fire, teeth blurred by ash
Gather the species final specimen
I cleave them open, feed the beast
Laying the foundation: rot wood
And an infinite pit found beneath
I’m from where starlings are
Fond of bad behavior, come give
Me every fever, hint of hypothermia
I eat up nor’easters, croak squalls
Wait for a water funnel to sprout
Or natural clover to take over
I’m wearing the emblem
Sporting the colors: fallout grey
And old-school bad-blood ochre
I can see your dream life claw
From dirt with fingers like okra
I recite the Apocrypha of pesticide
Tickle at your pest inside
From rural Michigan, Nicholas Alti is a bartender in Atlanta. He has pictures of his frogs and dogs in his wallet. More of Nicholas’s poetry can be found at Lotus Eater, TIMBER, DREGINALD, Denver Quarterly, Spiritus Mundi, and elsewhere.
