free verse – Page 2 – Kevin Trent Boswell

track

I suppose something
can be made of it,
all the contradictory motions

but I know not what

the signs and signals
all give opposite indications
of its intentions

the chaotic trail leads
in impossible directions,
as if the thing was not one,
but several

but I have laid eyes upon it

I am certain that
it is a single,
beautiful
thing

a comely, smiling ghost

scattering, as would ⠀
a flock of startled birds

a most mysterious
and majestic
creature she is

flummoxed

how does one pursue
an unpredictable sprite?

surrogate cadaver

toothpicks made from
dug-up coffins

a pop-up book
of sigils and talismans

a revolving mail slot
between the worlds

castigated pin cushions
weeping in the field

an invisible shelter
for black cats and roosters

rusty iron nails
bent ninety degrees

railroad spikes driven
into paper and meat

it’s a pleasure doing business with you,
antagonistic adversary

allow me to wipe the dust
into your eyes

dead, bloated cow

and that sickly, ugly war
raged through the streets,
unhinged and unhappy,
all too costly and unaware
of the damage it deals

it blisters the skin and boils the blood,
ripping down foundations,
blasting apart buildings,
making vehicles cease to exist,
filling the air with a foul stench
of fear and anger

its reward? only carnage
and arrogant blustering,
nothing of validity or consequence;
nothing positive or loving or logical

only the bellowing roar of endless warring

a hotdog cart burning in the road,
and fat, half-dead cow by the river,
making horrible noises of pain,
as it hopelessly calls out for attention

and to think, how everything
could have been peaceful, happy, and quiet

but some will always find it absolutely
unacceptable to have anything other than
their way

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

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