A SOFT THAT TOUCHES DOWN
&REMOVES ITSELF
Poems by David Tomaloff
Copyright 2011 David Tomaloff
Smashwords Edition
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NAP CHAP 3
Ebook produced by NAP magazine & Books
Cover by Miles Donovan
“...the bodies have their own light which they consume
to live: they burn, they are not lit from outside.”
—Egon Schiele
SOME SCENES, YOU DON’T MASTER
milk is the new cherry, I said
blasting yellow piñata all over the shore
whatever sees you best, I said
my heart made eyes and left her a mark
why do you want for alligator stories so much,
I said—
I warned of impending direction,
&immediately broke for the door
I had dreams I could make it with a sucker punch;
you could say “phantom!” and I could say “next!”
the women have strange names, I said
the trucks, I said, they come by here all the time
MOHAWK SIDEBURN ATTACHMENT KIT
caterpillars
look great on you,
I said—
caterpillars
are the new butterfly
don’t be an idiot
she said—
as if she’d
already begun
to build her cocoon
THESE ARE A RITUAL
The dirges were all villages;
we melted them into lead
we burned them all down,
I said—
to make way for the “us”
where is ever the option,
the seas to wash it all away;
the sins, I said—
surely, you don’t think
they will ever look for us here
it’s all wrong, she said
what, I asked, is wrong?
the service and the wine,
she said—
it really isn’t your best disguise
HONEY, IS THAT ELVIS?
the quarters go there—
into the slot, I said
the joysticks turned and mocked me;
I had no idea there were two
these ribs are delicious in harmony
my singing settles into the corner booth
and reaches over
to undo your tie
windows give me dreams,
she said—
the kind that come with
sucker punches and faces I can’t return
NOTHING IS CORRECT
ok, who put that there,
she said—
the stupid yellow mark
she was pointing to the sun
my embarkment lacked saint wherewithal;
in full transistor glory, I mentioned her mistake
that mark is no mark, I said—
we barely made it home
later, a pizza &words in a room
that’s an awful lot of stuck, she said
I said, what you see is the price
of doing business with the moon
TROUBLE HAS A LANGUAGE
every third Friday,
we’ll supersize the kids;
they’re our only real hope,
she said, in trying to keep warm
winter is a thief,
I said—
I didn’t, just then, dare to mention
what was really in my heart:
if the rain had caught fire this very instance,
if the fire had caught fire this very day,
I’d be content to dance under foot of it
as long as “I” and “you”
MY SECOND SHRUG OF THE AFTERNOON
what is the opposite of cotton,
she said—
she pointed at telephone wires
dated nineteen &thirty-six
it was a question I hadn’t
heard in a while
nothing, I said—
we stopped for a pint of lust
where is your wallet—
your spare rib, she said,
&don’t tell me you left it
back in nineteen &thirty-six
AFTER HORS D’OEUVRES
I pulled a party
from the cost of privacy;
the lights mysteriously dimmed a bit,
but I liked the way it felt
I like the way this feels,
I said—
unaware my eyes had been dancing
with my tongue but not my cheek
3/4 beat boys make strange lovers,
she said—
she barely had it all the way out, though,
before the drums dropped a plate of grenades
STEREO COMPONENTS
what’s the new dance?
she said it again; though,
these were not our children
I cannot say, I said—&didn’t
the song began to pine and lament
it’s loaning to a spent friend,
I whispered—I held out my hand
&we put the children to bed
in some circles lay monsters,
I lay thinking—
some circles are pennies
&woofer cones and amps
IS THERE LIFE ON MARS?
nothing has seen me this way in years,
the bartender said—
he tried on his brand new shirt-wig
it suits me, he said
he was right; it did
a hot pink influence waltzed
up and down my brainstem
it couldn’t be the newsboy;
I’d remember him,
I thought
what if what I thought was me
was never really me at all,
&the real me was currently
watching this me
from some planet far,
far away
oh my goodness,
I said—
I think I’m in love
THIS HYPOTHETICAL SHORE
I often touch the ground
like this before I’m off to sea
librarians don’t do this, I said—
they have no desire to even try
brass pirate’s knuckles were the trend
among men who were getting their feet wet
you understand me well, I said—
now, help us out to sea
remarkable the sky this day,
I said, as if no one were around
but no one really is around, I said
&that’ll do me just fine
MISS AMERICA
I miss America
you miss a lot of things,
she said—
I’m really going to Kansas this time;
I’m no longer putting it off
the doorbell laughed as
a package was delivered
I’m not surprised at all,
she said—
I was glad we were still intact
hotdogs and pipe bombs
are delicious in mixed company
my only regret,
I said—
is that we don’t have them more
IT’S ALWAYS JULY
I’m always doing things
like it’s the middle of December
let’s fornicate a riot, I said—
we asked for the check &left
how many people have actually
seen the Godfather trilogy,
I absent-mindedly pondered,
almost walking into a door
there was a museum in my heart;
I had season passes on indefinite hold
I’d walked by from time to time,
but never bothered to go in
I SAID I WASN’T SURE
why do you go on like that?
like what, I asked—
I leaned in attentively
with one eye on the door
sometimes you speak like Alcatraz,
she said—
the fact that things should not escape
doesn’t always mean they don’t
you know, there were never
any executions there, I said—
trying to make a point
so what’s your point, she said
RECOVERY
sometimes I feel like this on holidays
get the mayor on the phone,
I said—
I’m calling in the National Guard
the american franchise is dead;
though, I don’t say it isn’t a zombie
make sure you get something to eat,
she said—I was reaching for my keys
good fiction holds a map
to the minefields of the human condition
they have truck-stops in Virginia, she said—
I said I knew because I have seen them in dreams
IMAGINARY SNOW
good morning, commander!
today will be my day
every day should have a purpose,
she said—
then I’m calling this one “desire”
I thought I heard it
snowing last night,
I said—
with cocked head
and shot upper lip
there is enough of too much
of a bad good thing,
she said—
I thought,
it’s way too early for this
WHY I’M USELESS, No. 3
there was a great clatter in the yard
it sounded like the garden was rebelling
it sounds like the garden is rebelling,
she said—
I said, I can hardly blame it in this cold
have you seen the magic in those birds,
she said—
I had. I said, I have
I don’t think it was there the last time we were here,
she said. I said, maybe you just weren’t looking
if you have something to say,
she said, why don’t you just say it
I would,
I said,
if I could remember what it was
YIN & YANG
that mime cheated;
he was never actually in a box,
I said—
I held my finger in an upright position,
indicating my furious indignation
I don’t remember
some of my best dreams, she said
how do you know they’re yours,
I said—
she said, I know because you’re there
if you think about it,
cars are actually quite silly;
all that smog and to do,
she said—
with so very little much to offer
wait. back up.
what am I doing there, I asked
I was somewhat interested
in what I was potentially
accomplishing as she slept
you swim and stop the bullets,
she said—
which never make it to my heart
of course, it’s just a dream, she said
& in dreams, the guns don’t actually work
USING HYPERBOLE
what are you reading?
it’s my horoscope, I said
the ocean tells dirty jokes, she said
I said, you should hear it play guitar
there is no nonsense like
the nonsense in my heart,
I said—
snows fall on mars, I said
as well as on the ocean floor
really, she said
snow under the sea?
it’s not real snow, I said
it’s poetic license of sorts
I should know that
by now,
she said—
I agree, I said—
she really should
MY BABY, SHE’S A PHILOSOPHER
low flying planes
make me uncomfortable,
she said—
I’m afraid they’ll get stuck there
&never come down
you can’t have an answer
for everything,
I said—
we waited nine minutes
for a lumbering train to pass
look at him there,
she said—
yes, I said, aviation is wonderful
the last drunken train car hobbled off;
I wondered if the plane had ever come down
MY BABY, SHE’S A LOT OF THINGS
I messed with this for you;
it’s a hive of honey bees
she looked uneasy
though, she managed
to play it off
there are fault lines
in my thoughts at night,
I said—
that explains the earthquakes,
she said, I feel in my dreams
I didn’t mean it like that,
I said—
she said she knew
we stayed awake
&laughed until the sun rose
David Tomaloff (b. 1972) | is a writer, photographer, musician, and all around bad influence | likes: jazz | hates: jazz | photography: yes | like you, he is perplexed to consider that he is simply the product of a multitude of both internal and external exerting functions acting in or out of concert at a given time or accumulated over an unspecified period | his work has appeared in fine publications such as Mud Luscious, >kill author, Thunderclap!, HOUSEFIRE, Prick of the Spindle, DOGZPLOT, elimae, and many more. He is the author of the chapbooks, Olifaunt (The Red Ceilings Press), EXIT STRATEGIES (Gold Wake Press) and MESCAL NON-PALINDROME CINEMA (Ten Pages Press) | David Tomaloff resides in the form of ones and zeros at: davidtomaloff.com