Two Poems

The Hermit's Valentine to His California Ghost Bride

You gotta move. Sloopy with me

shake it like it was not was

in the solstice breeze strangle.

I coast to boast of dandelion fuzz

& on the beach whips the pleasant off.

You're so fine there's no surprise

when the bison bat the penguin

out the stagecoach & take their rightful

shotgun. Tequila arriba in the klieg light

too bright for albino mariachis.

We're reeling in the right to fake it

for the franchise we agreed on Thai

during halftime now you say

it's the seventh-inning stretch. Sing

Alicia Keys in the middle of the day

where we do our business no matter

how devious. Don't now the sinners

praise too. The hibernation hits

you mime a mighty mustard.

Won't be long 'til June the big warm

ready for the rascal

& with me groove to greet

her in the shouting soft of summer.

Am louder when you come around

to clap with me our teepee. We go back

what we want to find not what

Goodman Gloryhole derives from

the tea leaves. Crochet me a cock-warmer

for these Cambridge nights been bitin'

me in the Old Jack Frost. Newly-arrived

from Croatoan. Midnight

brought you back to me when all

I saw in my future was a desert starting

somewhere inside. Jump good

gracious to the countertop.

Talented the dwarf is I'd prefer

you the giant you are holding

up the sky over me huge arms

around me & your auburn locks

do dangle down delicate 'pon

my dong. A dirty boy don't change

& can't do better one day

tho maybe. Take this Rebecca 'til then

your big mouth piece of cake

beautiful noises to banter my

mind with barter for those days

I'd never have forget it. Baby. You take

me in the bad times good

I'll take you any day undeniable

Stockton Malone.

Sometime in the Gegenschein Your Name is Late Eternity

Intrepid chanteuse. The ballerina balances

even so she balances the sun

parting not the way I remember you.

Organ grinding drone the monkey pumping

hard against that open door. Ed Skoog

Tom Franklin & me eatin' chili cheese dogs

Wild Turkey misty Ripton night before the

fuck-up set me free to freak the true tribe.

Once upon a man a time pushed upon me

rightly zucchini feta pancakes. That man

was high the better one to ask the last

question I should've answered never did

Thomas Sayers Ellis. Enough name-check

let's go see a movie. My mind's'nough

make Sundance. What order

doesn't matter just that she

forevermore speaks of shadowy wood

ripe open seed-bee white dew drop.

I open the door. You been trying to stop

that kid from "Carouselambra" just let him

listen 'til he gets the movement

down into the Lite-Brite blizzard I clown

face fashioned. Could've walked

today to Mile 'Round still wondering

what happened to all my long ago gone.

Scuba-diving through your luxury box.

Hey hey hey hey. Wobble wipe the floor

with whoa. Don't tell me what it is to be

a woman. I got enough sense to know

the last thing I do's go there.

Let's take it back a step so I can

'splain myself to the lake monster

want you strapped behind me. Buenoes Aires

I adore thee. Protect me like a war criminal.

Natalie Portman won't never date you.

Steak love. Ouch. Not enough my mouth's

like a foot all the time high stepping

let's hit the mattress for keeps. Nowhere

I go watches TV any more I guess

that's good for all of us bad for Benson.

Volcano sacrifice. The appeal alluded me

'til miraculously my cock grew

cunt formed wholly by the magic

lava I bartered my entire collection of

M.A.S.K. & M.U.S.C.L.E.

for services I never dreamt rendering unto

myself. One Roman afternoon

you were there brighter than the rest

of the world only one other time

I'd seen this before. You through the door

both times space flipped its hip.

Dalmatian devotion I'm done.

for Emily Lundin

Michael Schiavo is the author of The Mad Song and is the designer and co-editor of the literary journal Tight. His poetry and nonfiction have appeared in The Yale Review, jubilat, Tin House, McSweeney's Internet Tendency, Forklift, Ohio, Seneca Review, Fou, The Raleigh Quarterly, and elsewhere. He lives in North Bennington, Vermont. You can find him online at michaelschiavo.blogspot.com. You can also find his book, The Mad Song, at www.northshire.com/siteinfo/bookinfo/9781605710150/0/ and the magazine, Tight, which he edits, at tightjournal.blogspot.com.