THREE POEMS by BEN STARR
america’s tiniest male prostitute
It’s tough walking these streets
with a grasshopper’s gait. Police
sirens scattering us like iron
shavings, my little legs forced
to run so many extra steps.
Most of my clients just want
to stare. I know I’m in trouble
when I arrive to a miniature
pair of studded chaps, cowboy
hat fit for a human thumb. But
even men my size gotta eat.
There is one guy. Wears thick
glasses, smokes American Spirits.
Lets me dance on his palm
before I slither off to explore
places he hasn’t dreamt of in years.
He folds a dollar like sexual
origami, places it in my pocket
and it’s back to the corner for me.
You lookin’ for a little fun, mama?
I can make you squeal with nothing
bigger than a blade of grass
and the tenacity of a thousand
carpenter ants.
how do you solve a problem like the zodiac
We met at work, on the thirteenth floor of a building shaped like an eclipse. We were professional problem solvers. She was working on how to extract empathy from a prism. I was tasked with measuring the celestial longitude of clouds. We made presentations in rooms walled in liquid mercury. Filed reports bled out on paper stacked up like towering waves. At lunch we tattooed ciphers on our wrists. Rubbed them together for luck. Debated various theories on the voynich manuscript. For our first date we climbed on a scorpion’s back to better experience the Taos Hum and then spent all night discussing how much fire it takes to light up the moon. Thankfully, most of the big questions have been answered by now. We know the gender of the aurora borealis and the sour taste of stars. On weekends we relax, sleep in, pen cryptograms wide as a constellation. I make her coffee, watch as she makes it spin and cool in her porcelain cup.
a conversation with my tumor
We share a brain. A right leg.
Half a pair of pants. Moonlight
strolls. Long walks on the beach.
Staircases spiraling to the top
of some medieval tower, always a
doe-eyed damsel in distress. First
steps on the moon, the ocean floor,
the volcano’s potent lip. Battalion
marches through the jungle, tiptoe
through the torsos. Our petite feet
plugged into a pair of manoletinas,
playing keep away with one very
curious bull. High kicks in a chorus
line. Side kicks in a street fight. Two
of us under the big top, tall white
leather boots dancing in dust. Just
you, me and my confident whip.
That lion on his tiny stool.
Ben Starr studied poetry in college and as part of the UCLA Extension Writers' Program. His work has been published or is forthcoming in Bending Genres, Dishsoap Quarterly, Maudlin House, Gone Lawn, SoFloPoJo, and other journals. Find more of his work on X @benjaminstarr and at benstarrwrites.com.