My Children Of Chaos by David Spicer

Doctor, I don’t mean to judge or nitpick
myself (God knows I should), but I need
to organize my unguents on the shelf
a little better. They need a pattern, no quirks,
or a rogue eland might engender itself,
and I couldn’t grasp that act, because a gorge
of mistakes would be my fault. No,
the items under the window have
to be antonymous to my children
of chaos, lest I yank them from an exhibit
that would hinder my insanity.
You know what I like to eat? Maize.
I don’t know why. Maybe I grow solemn
when I wear a fez, and my neck is less stiff.
I drink lemon juice with the corn.
Sometimes almond milk. Otherwise
I can’t function after a few seconds
have elapsed. Try it sometimes,
you’ll like it better than playing
Yahtzee under a tattered moon.
When you’ve finished, dangle a question
to verify or frighten yourself. If you fail,
you won’t be a fuckup, and if you are,
cling to me, zap my groin, raze
my psyche. It’s not like we’re kin.

david-spicer-2
David Spicer has had poems in The American Poetry Review, Ploughshares, Gargoyle, Mad Swirl, Reed Magazine, Slim Volume, The New Verse News, The Laughing Dog, Chiron Review, Easy Street, Bad Acid Laboratories, Inc., Dead Snakes, among others, and in the anthologies Silent Voices: Recent American Poems on Nature (Ally Press, 1978), Perfect in Their Art: Poems on Boxing From Homer to Ali (Southern Illinois University Press, 2003), and A Galaxy of Starfish: An Anthology of Modern Surrealism (Salo Press, 2016). He has been nominated for a Best of the Net twice and a Pushcart, and is the author of one full-length collection of poems, Everybody Has a Story (St. Luke’s Press, 1987), and four chapbooks. He is also the former editor of Raccoon, Outlaw, and Ion Books. He lives in Memphis, Tennessee.
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