Kevin Trent Boswell

Deserts

Sweat fire

Thermometer glowing
Like an arc welder’s bead

Rack ‘em up, and
Break one hundred

Fifteen 8 balls on the table

Ninety-nine bottles of
Fahrenheit on the wall,
Thirty-seven bottles of Celsius
If none of that mercury
Should happen to fall,
Doom and extinction,
Us, will befall

Nuclear fusion in the skull

[Crawls into a cave and collapses.]

a first world problem

being a poet and a songwriter
everyone assumes the things you write
are about them

a symptom of narcissistic culture,
exacerbated by social media

people love to be talked about
(favorably, anyway)

some people don’t even care if it’s favorable,
as long as someone is talking about them

write an angry piece about anyone,
and suddenly, ten friends are worried
it’s about them

twenty acquaintances
are boiling in their juices

say something vague about someone
who did you a favor and meant a lot to you,
people line up to take credit

write about a bad breakup,
half a dozen old girlfriends
are seeing red, blowing fuses,
about things that happened
five, ten, fifteen, twenty years ago

even though, in reality,
it’s not about them at all

write anything romantic,
and a dozen girls are swooning,
each one quite positive
it’s about them

or they’re enraged because
they believe it’s about someone else

but that one piece,
the really sexy, romantic one,
the one that made you flustered,
flush, lightheaded with excitement

that one was
definitely
about you,

yes, you,
the one
reading this
right now

I swear

reengineered

reinvent the round, roly-thing
obfuscate, make useful stuff obsolete
situations we’d sorted out,
happily, a long time ago

some growing pains, yes, a sting
lots of sunk-cost fallacies to eat
and tales of yesterday to talk about
but no real satisfaction to show

unspeakable things

I may need someone to
bail me out of jail one day

a few rude words?
I ignore that nonsense

rise above that garbage
pseudo-alpha peacocking

I’ll laugh it off, or stare at you, blankly

but don’t put your hands on me or mine

I don’t know you, so I’ll assume
that you intend serious harm,
and that you’re capable of it

which means I won’t “phone it in”
or give unnecessary warnings

I’ll just break you, snap you in half
like a fresh string bean

I’m capable of far worse things than you,
on your best day, and my worst

I didn’t choose golf or video games
I chose martial arts, guns, and black magic

you are merely uncouth, and ill-tempered

I am polite, well-mannered, patient,
observant, and unapologetically evil

evil to the core

bonkers

the world has gone and goes
farther into madness each day

hands gripping the panicked ledge
clock prying weak fingers away

losing all safety and sanity,
stripped of it daily and nightly

if you can find yourself an anchor,
hold on to it fiercely and tightly

a proper beau

a dapper gentleman in a suit
a prowler lurking near
a kind fellow holding flowers
a sly devil in a trench coat

a maiden has no way of knowing

desiring yet fearing pursuit,
certain words she yearns to hear
to fall into charming powers
a request, a command, a careful note

a glowing smile is telling, showing

a callous beast who cheats and lies
or a happy tear brought by a lover
a spineless, cowering, simpering wimp
or a loyal man who inspires devotion

a rock, a champion to win her heart

someone bold, a little older, wise
a warrior to shield her and cover
caresses that make her weak and limp
to make forever more than a notion

if hurdles may be overcome at the start