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Mills' poems online:

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David Mills




 



I Want H all of you but I ( )Ate your Guts


 

On your tongue the letter “H” sleeps when it should

be awake and sashays when it should sit

 

still. It's then that you offer me weather

that you don't want: windows of rain that are

 

flung open; a sky of suede cement dozing

on its navel. Here, I am sandwiched between

 

butterbeans and moonlight. Florida:

this country unbuttoning the sun. Soon,         

 

you will be four cities of memory. Soon,

there will be a triangle of quiet; soon

 

my tongue will wonder why chocolate eyes

two eyes that blink and sizzle. Two nights

 

ago we passed a manhole cover painted

like bistecca florentina with tapioca bubbles.

 

The smoke that twined from this city's

skillet seemed to gallop over supper's room

 

temperature antipasto. I hope so. I so hope that life

can tell the difference between vanilla and hell.

 

And if love is an investigation let me suggest

a detective: then one day my insecurities


will wait in a queue so long that they

will eventually about face, know home.

 

 

 

 

 

Honestly,



 

life is a line

no one

 

should cut.

                  We cold, we cold. Sorry

 

we cannot

accept thoughts

                          of 17

dinars or less because beyond

 

the emporium, English

literature is a movie ticket

 

that should be defenestrated. My condolences

to all the furniture in the third

 

                                       world and the bikini

Philistines. How cold ridge

 

                 of you. Please do not

 

irk a plus-sized Happy

                                             Meal because

Santa Claus is coming to Town

               Hall:  Police Navidad. Police

     

         Navidad... With a dose of opium,

 

Kubla conned

the age

    of reason into thinking

 

it would think forever. If you can,                   

 

                                                      toggle your bottom

 

lip to some sheet music. . .

 

                                        where whole

 notes

 

              stand-in for eye

                   sockets

their gaze                                            pong-pings

                              between Porlock

 

and Linton: over yonder, one thousand

 

                           300

              (and) twenty

 feats

 

               from Culbone.

 

 

 

 

P.A.L.I.N.D.R.O.M.E.



(after Terrance Hayes)

 

On a word tour, a quintet of “es” bops up & down streets 3-letters long. In Rome

they wanted more, even formed a line as long as the Nile.

A real pane in the nape some dame made us late, made our ride

to the club dire.

The car's FM dial so laid-

back the music hovers five feet in front of this coupe de chill. Made-

moiselle we rehearse backwords and forwords. And although I'm a linguistic drop-

out, do you Parlez vous bebop, its lemon lime-

light? Do you ever let your eyelashes sweep some line

-r notes? Damn, it's already 8, which is 3 eyeing itself in a mirror more

and more.

Late for the gig, my fallen cymbal: the sun KO'd, flat on its back. Dixieland.