FOUR POEMS by JOHN BLAKE OLDENBORG
Beautiful Weather Today
Summer came with a dead hawk in its teeth
I hang a pair of thermometers like lizards
from the lobes of my ears In Tucumcari
the cyanometer colors the Blue Swallow
a certified seven and Bubba’s eyes were swift
spotting its original neon
and 100% refrigerated air
The man with a lost dog
sells me pills I wield the sad
yeehaw emoji like a big iron from the hip
and your heart shaped waffles
sit alone in the refrigerator
well past an edible timeframe
For every departed love
they hang bluets on the upside-down wall
Ugly I cradle my bungled joy
Ugly I sob on the gymnasium treadmill
Has a horoscope ever told someone to go
fuck themselves? I’ve done so much harm
to my natural oils In the flash burn
we smell like a Home Depot We could go out
Do something playful like axe throwing
or dirty brunch
When the Sun Hides Behind the Mountain I’ll Still Call it Sundown
the blood pools to rust on the peak of the river’s peninsula
jackalope you never appear no matter how hard I try
river trout among families of other river trout
coffee inside me arcade inside me card kiosk inside me
all the more games this way inside me
that dead mall I crawled into for warmth
made me an abandoned burger king in my own lifetime
morning an inflatable hammer at my fingertips
makes clouds bloom as minced onion scattered on cast iron
sound of sucking ice like old teeth made of resin
wires attached to my gummy skull I can make them chatter
the teeth I mean I can make them chatter
life a dogfight I bet on and lost
bookie said the shooting star don’t stop for no sad hodunk boy
flirtations in earshot at the interstate titty bar
saw kid indigo with a pair of $200 pit vipers
pyramid of animal heads nailed to the back wall
jackalope with green hazel eyes and thirteen horns
I stick my tongue in a sleeping beehive
come back with a peck on the cheek
Oh Lord
in a strip mall sad and ungainly
with Vaseline on his arm
of Rorschach and plum wine
of the Cherry Boy and his snail brigade
forbid I’m romantic in America
with clouds under his black beetle nails
of blank canvas and bumble bee
dislodge the stinger with a credit card
of cruel and usual punishment
who forbade maladaptive daydreams
of great floods and greener pastures
let’s me watch the television for half an hour
who rinsed me in the Thames
who said how clean thou art
his young oyster of the river
the one with an estranged failson
curator of expensive dirt and chamomile
he thinks of you as a place
the watermelon seed in your stomach growing
Disappearing Lake
When the power goes out
I take the mini-Winnebago
to the disappearing lake
They’ve found bodies
in barrels Ancient speed
boats Oh young protozoan
a haunting could happen
to anyone Grief a path I found
I could walk and walk
ask new questions
what body fat percentage
for the Blue Man Group
forgot to feed
my apricot heart
yesterday’s leftovers
and liquid multivitamins
Beyond this point
you may encounter nude bathers
I’ll admit that embarrassingly
I made a villain of the Colorado
How the flowers they plant
would not be there otherwise
Standing on the lake’s one island
there’s only one of me I’ve been
bulking for twelve winters Never
had a serious Bright Eyes phase
There won’t be a right time to jump
glasses fall to the bed of shale
You will hurt
in new and exciting ways
father spears a blue baby
dwarf shark on the shore
Chisel a new wrinkle
into your palm
dive into the periwinkle water
The blood only lasts for a moment
an out of practice
cannonball
its ghost sticks around
wading above the lakebed
John Blake Oldenborg (he/him) calls Tallahassee home, but currently attends the University of Nevada, Las Vegas, where he is earning an M.F.A in poetry. Some of his poems are forthcoming in Misery Tourism, New Note Poetry, Rat World Magazine, and appear elsewhere online. Twitter: @LMFAOldenborg; Email: john.blake.olden@gmail.com.