Travis Nichols

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• A Poem from Bled

A Poem from Bled

Second hand smoke after a day of sunshine & my hand
is lathered in tight lotion just like when I was a baby
& my brains were dashed on the hot asphalt
because I couldn’t stay in my yellow safety seat.
A flat breast slides down the mountain into the lake
& we bake cookies on the stones. Not really,
but this is a poem! Can you feel it
tightening its crystal vice around your perverted sensibility?
I can. No one understands this kind of life,
but it is mine
& I refuse to hang myself with ropes of dried ostrich blood
just so the illusion of ease may prevail over every greasy bedpost.
Take off greasy bedpost!
Fly into the first morning clouds
& be cleansed by their movement! Tell me truly,
isn’t “A Moveable Feast” really
a stupid title for a book? Look,
the hay dries on the rack.
The beekeeper paints his little doors.
The skin of even the mountain goat
tightens in the evening air,
so paddle with vacuous cheer
into your fat bottle of pink soda & I will plunge
into some sunny buttocks with the grace of God’s erasor.

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