William C. Blome – 3 poems 

ETUDE 13 

 

Once upon a time in Pennsylvania near a battlefield, you

Cast your blouse to the wind of a stereotypical March day

Where bluster grabbed the green of silk ’cause nothing else

Was green enough to grab. Flight’s a wondrous thing

If it’s relatively rare, and you aren’t a pilot, a cormorant,

Or a flying squirrel, and—No thanks, I don’t need scissors

To cut through the spaghetti straps of your slip, that’s what

God gave me a great big mouth for, and yon cannonballs defy

The atmospheric elements entirely because we still believe

Their time to fly is imminent. Well, it’s time for us to make one

Another feel much, much, much the better; it’s time to bring

ourselves to a lovely, rolling boil: My oh my what you can do

With your breasts, your tongue, your toes! My oh my the feast

You serve heaped up between your hands! My oh my

The flights you cause above the grass at Valley Forge! 

 

  

🍃

  

JULY FIFTH

 

Some roman candles that would not launch now get the heel of my yellow boot. Can you imagine flame biting deep into these colorful bad boys and then finding no retort of any kind posting through the nighttime sky? So I raise my foot and pound it down again and again, I stomp dud fireworks into the ground, and now you murmur in my ear that multi-hued corn can grow and flourish here if we drop a kernel or two on top of the ground-in candles. I say to you, “Understand, lovely pear, I really don’t give a shit, the theory sounds phony and melodramatic to me, but no problem, no problem, I’ll certainly go along. Let’s use more than one ear of that dried-out maize.” At the same time, I keep saying to myself, sure, if tossing corn on fucked-up fireworks can warm her little heart—can bring my head ever-closer to that fluffy prize—then bombs away, my-one-and-only, let’s toss out oodles of your pretty seed.

  

🍃

  

MY MERRY WAY

 

All my late and recent life

I’ve wanted women ever younger,

Ever dumber, ever wider,

Ever richer, ever weaker.

I’ve carved your nickname

In a fencepost near my ex-wife’s hacienda,

Though I’m not worried about her reading

What I call you, or scraping up the money

To find my distant, graffiti-ed ass.

Rather, it’s your butterball, retard, infant

Neighbor in diapers wove of platinum thread

Who’s grabbing me tight as bondage now

And won’t soon let me go

Along my merry way. 

🍃

  

William C. Blome writes poetry and short fiction. He lives wedged between Baltimore and Washington, DC, and he is a master’s degree graduate of the Johns Hopkins University Writing Seminars. His work has previously seen the light of day in such fine little mags as Poetry London, PRISM International, Fiction Southeast, Roanoke Review, Salted Feathers and The California Quarterly. 

  

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