Convene, Extra, and Binge by Misty Rampart
What I crawl toward (with what’s left on the tray), dull but piquant, there’s no name for in your swanky idiom. I drain you, delicious. Afterwards you’re tedious and stupid. I’m omniscient, hitting that pedal point looking for the scarce train of my thoughts. It opens a channel though, where fresh things swing into a simple mind.
What’s in your market is free, telling me how you roasted while I blew and murdered you below the neck. You cry and grab my neck in your burly arms. It’s illustrious, this dirt. We do it right somehow, numerous times in fact, and write psalms to the literate night.
I imagine a field someplace where a damp cow forsakes a plastic existence as unsuitable milk while I proceed to boil an egg in order to proceed making a snotty, cautious crib for our descendants. But it’s our place to whine about. So I exchange a bubble with an outgoing thirsty blue sky.
It’s an average, faded dream this square we live inside, four corners that don’t or won’t wobble. But one fine afternoon I was so irate I melted in my seat when our tipping scale became the stale news that only a pig finds interesting.
I could walk away but that would be foolish. Who would paint the walls? Who would lick them like an art? I suppose dinner must be made, although it’s a very low form of love, too billowy and abrupt, not nearly selective enough to make me jump.
I could instead peel your cover, revealing a hulking trail that leads me to where I behave because of the jittery glue that keeps the inevitable crash at bay. It’s dry and outrageous how you wash me to the degree you do. It’s redundant, like a black and white harbor or some other new dawn.
I protect this harmony no matter how disillusioned I get, no matter how tall you are. Suck on my toe and give me pause, a reason to compete for the ill-timed transport of my soul to yours. Then I do wash and it gives me credit no doubt. You read the paper and reduce today’s headlines to a rub. I see this continuing long-term, maybe even becoming historical.
We went to church in periodic installments just to get the feel for how incompetent religion can be when what we’re really looking for is a wiry, rare place for our hearts to wander, not some crate of determined outcomes.
I circle the correct answers quickly, just like we screw, and we enjoy it. I write literate notes and put them in a box that no one will open. Its lock is supreme though accidental, its contents general and obscene. The rest of the time I wail against thoughts and institutions with a fist that you can observe, unbiased by fate or fame.
©2020 Misty Rampart
Misty Rampart is the author of several books including most recently 6” (poems) and Delicate Tornado, the third book in the Diaries of Wanda Casey series. She is also the editor of Pink Litter at pinklitter.wordpress.com