The Rescue Operation

I told the girl I would try one of her

funky poems and I will, but not now, because

funky poems are hard poems and this

kind of poetry here is easier and more likely

to cause my mind to wander. I keep thinking

of the beasts in the field and the soil in

the earth. I also think of the yolk in the egg

and the egg in the belly of the alligator. I can

imagine the air lifting the leaves and the

trees teeming with certain grubs. I keep

thinking of the shellfish in the sea

and the water that it takes to move

a large, large ship through the ocean. I am

barely thinking of the girl now. Barely

imagining how she forms words with her

mouth and with the words she forms

whole rotations and spins. Sometime,

in the dark volcano of clocks, something will

rise up and up and, like a bird or a

paper airplane, sail out of this joint, into

the box where the rest of us are waiting

with our tied tiny hands and our gags.

Big Talk

This poem, man, this poem

is the truth, man. It's so true

because it says so, like the Bible,

man, like other books too.

Also, this poem has a pretty

little nose. The nose on this poem

is as cute as a bellybutton, but

it's kinda runny too, so someone

should step up and blow

the nose of this poem. That

person best suited to do this

would probably be me, man, but

I'm not gonna, man, cause

I don't roll with runny nosed

poems. Dude, don't even

brag about your hatchback or

your spring break t-shirt.

Don't give me any crap about my

gambling addiction. Mind your

own beeswax, man. Leave

me and my totally truthful

poem alone, man. We're tired.

Man, we need sleep.

The Basement Robe


The move into evening comes with

a hint of fear, just a jealous little tadpole

that wants to be a frog much quicker

than is possible. The night looms at me as

in Mr. big bucks, as lonely as an answer

and curious to a thunderstorm. I say to myself,

humanly, Hey, listen--nothing has happened,

no kitten is sliding slanty off the roof,

there is no gold toothed whisperer on this

home front. Listen, kid, what you want

is the apples that aren't apples, but

are fruit, but a strange kind of fruit that

is certainly fruitish, but unnamed. Let whatever

gofer you have run toward a hole, let

them run away. Do not impede the desertion.

Still, a persistent collar I'm wearing is attached

to a persistent leash which is leashed to

a permanent sidewalk. All around us there is velvet

and all around the velvet is more velvet

and all of it is in darkness and all of it is

velvet but it's deadly. You do not want to be draped

in it,



Peter Davis writes, draws, and makes music in Muncie, Indiana with his sweet kids and sweet wife. He is the author of  two poetry collections, most recently Poetry! Poetry! Poetry! (Bloof Books, 2010). His poems have appeared in H_NGM_N, Coconut, Tarpaulin Sky, No Tell Motel, The Best American Poetry, and others. He teaches English at Ball State University. For more on Peter and his work visit and poetry!poetry!poetry!