JR Walsh



Poem 1:

When the unidentified you identifies with the black and white flag

Three times you mentioned there are no numbers but deleted ones. Done in by a pencil with no tip, graciously and gratuitously for father and son in no particular order holy or continuous, a momentum unsullied by eraser —

Eclaired teeth fulfill the warrantee: Un-guaranteed correction. If Jeremiah was a bullfrog, then we are sworn enemies. What then? Who swore us in and what cobwebs will

annex what when left idle.

I am a kinetic state or county township parish hamlet. Bills of sale passed and past sell dates on the right. From condiments in pockets, inspiration is wet and leaking. This is hot dog legislation. All praise the meat. Speak in tongues. Lap the speedy delivery.

Poem 2:

When kids die and go to Heaven

Grandfather Clock says, “Got your    halo.”

The halo is your nose.

You believe when you’re young.

But when you’re dead

clocks ain’t kidding

and he’s a collector.

The wrought hands arrow

a thumbed knuckle, blessed

and round, floating, glowing.

Now you can’t smell Heaven.

Poem 3:

When kids die and go to Hell

You can smell Heaven

but your wings are in Buffalo

stuck in esophagus taffeta

until fist pounds chest

and spices taste red and

redder on the way back.

Early bird diabetes and

empathy waxing chronic

don’t conjure relocation.

You won’t choke.

Poem 4:

When kids die and go to Kmart

It smells like Buffalo.

The deer and the antelope

shop for blue lights.

A discouraging bird

is seldom heard scanning

despite that’s his job.

You wait in line for eggs.

High counter ketchup lips

smack jelly toast Mama.

A shaker lid dumps chirping salt.

Poem 5:

When kids die and are kids

Were we talking goats

or ghosts of goats long gone?

Daddy long legs knows.

The elegant spider

watches a solitary goat

stay what he am.

The wife and kid split

for greener pastures

and get milked lonely.

The kid eats an entire scarecrow.