THREE POEMS BY CHRISTOPHER SCHMIDT
All Tomorrow’s Parties
Expect no takers. Don’t hate Queens.
Where everyone is smoking
is and is not here. Lumberjack
stares at the boyfriend, the boyfriend.
Serious? Serious? Like interns
on TV. Like, fun. Another malady.
Cat and mouth and cant and mouse.
My sentiments exact.
Swallow, stumble
pie could not but sweeten
in a saucer, tarter saucer.
Dress mine with lime, with lime.
Each one blows the next in line.
Had I courage, I’d warm the others.
Night-night the only greasing.
The wind troubles me also.
Arcades Palare
Woke up bruised, fruit that I am. Prepare a drink called
Ultimate Meal. It does not assist suicide. Nothing to do in
January but write, with movies so bad. Someone whisling
Rod Stewart. Maybe a little sexy. Fall in love with a saint.
Winter in love with summer. Spring left to its own devices and
fortunately never rusts. The man who fell to mirth. Improve
your Flash skills without a trench. Want ads. To go away.
Making Eyes
Ground, white.
Then hole for light
the size of why
not a pine nut?
Go with two.
One goes blank,
you’ve got your
spare
& parallax fixes
lazy ones.
Render edge
of obscure moon
an index
of spectrum:
gem rims,
softens the
eclipse.
*all from The Next in Line, Slope Editions, 2008.
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