A journal of semi-detached poetry.

Michael Prihoda - Poems (3)

Doll 4 [i]

the stare of you today
comes as if you have always been ahead of me
& are only now showing what the youngness of your hands
cannot do for us.
at a concert in Denver,
or was it in Los Angeles or Tempe,
i only remember a blurred constellation of lights,
a voice from everywhere

telling me things could be okay if…          (somehow, a periscope to the moon, seeing a million tiny oceans                                                         captured as microorganisms)

they might be fine when…               (in August the left turn signal shorted, the faucet became hydro                                                                                   -monotonous, & if i                                                       squinted accurately i saw the impermanence in the                                                        wooden flooring)

i carried the world & all its germaneness,

                                                (invented planets behind the earth’s core to create of                            myself a future historical figure, hell-bent toward heaven)

in my palms,
but loosely,
as to not hold a beating heart as a birthstone.

Mask 1 [ii]

a crippled balloon
flight come back.
let’s return
to that colorless
of mountains
& more mountains,
where airplanes
streak the sunset
with all of their lungs,
none of their love.
this ground disappears
as we float. for
our prayers
what comes back
is only as much home
as the purple of an alley

Temple Guardians



a ream
of paper.
are you paying attention?
paying attention?
service requested.
find a stamp
at the abyssal cabinet,
ask your postman if he delivers to, from, a place of infertility.
you have
four colors
to paint
the atmosphere,
the world,
every aching bruise.

[i] A boy in an old man mask slumps against concrete blocks amidst decaying leaves. He holds a doll loosely by its feet in his right hand.

[ii] Two masks on a table, one upward, one outward, both positioned beneath a window beyond which sunlight bathes a tree. A piece of door makes the left edge of the photo, stark white against the gloom.



(Text © Michael Prihoda - Publication: Spring 2018)



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