FIVE POEMS by DANIEL J FLOSI
Anatomy
from the chapbook, "CRIES, THE MIDNIGHT SKY" (Bullshit, Jan. 2023)The anatomy of the orange and the anatomy
of your mouth are identical.
Vesicles of the navel are an exact image
of your taste buds. Which is how you can taste
the hard water that watered her. Which is why
there is a stone in your belly.
The sweat filled eye suffocates the mind,
but tonight's sunset is a salve.
Peel away the segment wall and suddenly
it becomes a cicada wing. Each purl
like an anxious mother waiting for her kids
to come home beads with sweat.
You eat shamelessly.
Juices slide down your pulpy throat
then you sing like that little boy across the street
when he saw his momma
with his shotgun down her throat.
Speed Dating Your Partner at The Diner
This ain’t your momma’s
kitchen the sign says—
you sink into the skin
of the booth, or seat,
whichever comes first.
The woman superimposed
by the window
is yours and she is the one
who offers her harvest
to all.
Coffee smells tickle
sizzle sizzle sigh
The waitress drifts
between surging percussion
lacking lust
or verve
but you can actually feel
the bass
from the speakers
through the walls.
The counter caller
names syphilis
& whiskey stains—
your styrofoam hope
leaves the building
in the squibbles
& squirrels
of Bob Ross’ hair.
Another round of Cheladas
& dance the dance
that lovers dance when
they have kids
& are out in public.
Let’s see how far
we can get from here
in the time it takes
to digest.
Honeysuckle
bitterness in the salt
mine crustiness
corner of your lips.
Clambake,
daisy chain,
hand grenade.
Momma’s
in the kitchen,
while pappa’s
on the wall,
in the eaves of this
brunchtime garden
our supple
has run dry.
And the poet will piss in the stream—
The Question Now Is What Do We Do with All This Waste?
In this economy.
Brush it aside.
To the side.
Of the sidewalk.
Our potatoes.
Are drowning.
Under soil.
While we stand.
Watching.
Vulture.
Circles overhead.
The I spiders.
Under wing bloom.
Feel the pinch.
Of cabbage moth.
Belly drag.
Skims.
The yellow stemmed.
Of yesterday.
Drought.
Must be.
Then a groundhog.
Ragged runs.
Across the street.
All things find.
Their way.
Back.
To the surface.
How we make.
Decisions:
Need ::
Now.
We stand.
Grieving.
The river.
Gutter washed.
Agog.
Watching shadows.
Circles.
The ground.
Lungs.
Lunge.
Wail.
Nothing is.
Wasted.
Bloke it’s.
All in.
Your.
Head.
Cronus devoured all but one of his children and we all know how that worked out for him
Daniel J Flosi sometimes thinks they are an apparition living in a half-acre coffin within the V of the Mississippi and Rock Rivers. Daniel is a poetry reader at Five South, and is the founder/EiC of Black Stone / White Stone. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Funicular Magazine, Olney Magazine, Rejection Letters, Feral Poetry, and many more. His chapbook, “Cries, the Midnight Sky,” is out with Bullshit Lit. Drop a line: @muckermaffic.