August 1, 2010
ladies and gentlemen of the jury, we are floating in space
in fulfilling civic duty you avert the right
to remain vehement in the style you size my jaw
i reserve mine to bear the left arm shaky finger-
cross an oath hind rooms rife with judgment
for all you know i worship a blown brown star
it breaks through a gothic street sweeper
& eats chipped sun from the glassy ground
winter of sweat
unspooling the ridge stops of my rationed mind
such passion breaks down straight to dvd press
as the clown car in pileup or pellets for
monster trucks woozy with hunger
strikes dinner bells to the ground in provocation
no the teeth painted on me are not my true teeth
that are far more yellowed and honeyed
for natasha khan
in an age of interplanetary travel i count
two suns making mincemeat of the corneas
two reasons to leave well enough at home
with lust but no wander like love
when affection objects to the earthbound
engines that roar, planting flesh in tracts
of sallow land like soylent green is people
watching people watching birds sprout freckles
against the afternoon skin, day before sloughed
under night tines to the tune of i’ve been working
on the railroad so long my back throws out
its own scoliotic reasons for this, the stasis
arrived timely as a swiss watch
could not beat out the tarot card read for best
present of 2009: our casual first encounter over
the hanged man, or was it the hermit, yes it was
your haruspicy turned my guts
to spirit finger strum: a low slung inner armchair
i can squint through the telescope’s socket to spy
you, starry-eyed, teasing the priapic red dwarves.
heart of glass
for alice glass
you can blame me for the wedding
invitations, the dj. i thought he rocked
my bro’s mitzvah. who knew such
aberrations as the electro-slide existed?
not i, broke down during the epithalamion
like a lambskin condom, nor aunt bea
stomping flower girls for tossed flowers.
orchids were all wrong. forget-me-nots
would have made a stronger statement.
but what of your friend-os? canadians
eyeball smacked in the back pew. i was
baptized in this church, my grandmother’s
hagiography hangs in the rectory, albeit
limply. what does that mean to you, mrs.
alice practice? ms. grass, and again
apologies for the typo face. think of it
as homage to our favorite song and don’t
hue this foot we got off on gangrenous.
i’ll make it up to you after the retirement
when we can really be together.
I tried to buy into the myth of wintry.
Knowing when I filled a cell with every snowman.
And every snowman a carrot shank.
I could melt their incarcerated hearts.
Having felled more angels than syrup squirts trees.
The season numbers me an allied enemy.
A moving target of airborne ice.
You whitewashed queen of my pictures.
Zach Buscher resides in the Wild West of Massachusetts. Having received his MFA from the University of Arizona in 2009, he now teaches at Quinsigamond Community College in Worcester, MA. Check out previous work online in fine in fine places like 420pus, SHAMPOO, 580 Split, Otoliths, tinfoildresses, Wheelhouse Magazine, sawbuck, Juked, Spooky Boyfriend, and My Name is Mud. For added checking out he does keep a website at http://www.zachbuscher.com and a Twitter account @PoetryTwit.