Mills' poems online:

The Pedestal Magazine





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.








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



              stand-in for eye


their gaze                                            pong-pings

                              between Porlock


and Linton: over yonder, one thousand



              (and) twenty



               from Culbone.






(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.