"Cowgirl.Vomit.Splenda" and "Toyotathon"
everybody needs somebody
to handcuff themselves to.
I'm a fascinating fucking creature.
Constantly looking for my inverse,
I've far too many beds
where to lay my head
to be anything but homeless.
I'm a fascinating creature fucking.
Dancing is permitted now once
again at the Cowgirl.
The storms of her form in
monogamy's negative space
betray the lovelorn strum,
this opening act.
I cannot comprehend the borders
of myself engaged in these thoughts,
a poem unfettered.
I'm a creature fucking fascinating.
A borrowed silhouette,
cut through the
moonlight here, the pitiful moonlight.
I fuck fascinating creatures.
Recall with startling clarity,
the hue of a private tattoo.
I almost spelled your name again,
fingers tracing foreign flesh.
“Peace of mind through piece of ass, brother.”
- Maxwell, local character of note
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Contact me tonite!
Today the sunlight,
Waking next to
genderless & plural,
taking swings at formless things.
Words, a symptom of attempting
to speak in the fourth person,
not I or you or they,
but one who is there,
or was there,
though not to all, or any, really,
but the first person, singular.
“You can't be wise and in love at the same time.”
Bob Dylan said that one time, I think.
He didn't so much fall off the tightrope
after a year of balance, as much as he was bisected
into hemispheres, divorcing the pain
from the wound, though at times he struggles
to recognize between the two, vacillating unknowingly,
a coin in constant flip.
He used to drive a Camry
and watch too much television.
So today, when he told her
that he would love her longer
than any Toyotathon,
to him that meant forever.
Drunk and stumbling on introspection,
whether I found the garden that night
or found myself in the garden is irrelevant
at this juncture.
In front of me, a woman, unknown.
Language as we know, is a virus,
generalities a pandemic.
On iron knees we are rusted in
worship of 4-letter words.
I've written on this subject before.
The institution to this day owes me my winnings
for the tale I approximated, two lovers
intertwined on the cool grass of the cemetery,
their spirits entwined above,
bolstered by the offerings of another.
Love, the wild intangible,
in a world bankrupt & middling,
a market inefficiency,
that allows the combination of one and one to equal three.
And if that equation is difficult to comprehend,
then you're on your way to getting it.
Chris Nold is a writer based in Brooklyn, New York. He's been published recently in Bushwick Daily and Taxicabmag, and also participated in the Strand Bookstore's National Poetry Month "Micro-Residencies." He's also an amateur crimefighter and sommelier.