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dancing girl press, 2014
$7.00 |
Annette Hakiel is a poet and painter who splits her time between NYC and Rochester, NY. She lives with her husband Scott, and cat Allen Ginsberg. She suffers from paranoid schizophrenia.
APPARENTLY, BOY
There's a poster in Long Beach advertising false claims.
There's a stink in Sacramento, a stink in New Haven.
But beauty belies the question – Was it me?
If I was dazzled by your insolence
last Sunday, I refuse to show it.
Insert a form, like a tree, into a rule, like
gravity, and divine retribution should occur swimmingly.
Wood should
fall up (thinking of you, Love).
The rule is bound not only to commit
a crime of vengeance, but also perjury.
This is how I put you through law school.
Though I admit dipping my
computer mouse in olive oil was a clever rouse
childish enough to be appreciated for its creativity.
Steady.
Those bric-a-brac lanterns.
The offending inanimate
object: an anti-skeptical weapon,
with which I can hit upon the head, you nonce.
Sure, we need dreams less when we remember them.
Sure, this is a complicated way of saying nothing.
A fistful of words, a mouthful of wonder.
A hundred crumpled dollars in the register.
I gave them the discount.
The stink is you, Dear.
Let's not confuse plot with conclusion.
After the olive oil incident,
Lover, my hands were smooth for days.