Mills' poems online:
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
We cold, we cold. Sorry
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
Santa Claus is coming to Town
Hall: Police Navidad. Police
Navidad... With a dose of opium,
of reason into thinking
it would think forever. If you can,
toggle your bottom
lip to some sheet music. . .
stand-in for eye
their gaze pong-pings
and Linton: over yonder, one thousand
(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
Late for the gig, my fallen cymbal: the sun KO'd, flat on its back. Dixieland.