Potluck

 

T H I S    W E E K

The Theorist by Bo Fisher

 

Three Poems


SOY SONG
 

I have just been informed
by a dear friend of mine
that she is now a soybean. 
This, of course, is problematic
as I am known to consume soy
on occasion. Occasions
for me are very small: 
it is morning, it is afternoon, 
the dog has begun to beg. 
There is a conversation of rain
outside I am too unwell
to participate in. 

In periods of un-wellness
I lay on blocks of tofu and wait for the ground to shift. 
I call this soy therapy. 
And so this revelation is troubling for me— 
that my friend is now a soybean. 
But what can I say? 
I have seen people spend agreeable lifetimes
continentally adrift with one another. 

I think to myself: soy does not
consume me, I consume soy. 
I think I am flying over
the San Fernando Valley
where all of the clouds
look like dehydrated roses
and this is not a subject
I wish to discuss right now. 

So we talk about your new living
arrangement instead: 
how the room will be
fumigated with blue lightning
and rubbing alcohol. 
You’ll have to scrub your way
back in time, when
our biggest concern was
how small our hands were. 
How heavy silk was. 

 

 

 

 

FOR SAFEKEEPING
 

i. 
The banks have closed. 
All of the tellers
have migrated
back to their caves
where thousands of bats
are dying of white nose syndrome, 
hanging up their coats
learning earthen ways of sadness. 


 

ii. 
My penis slides off
easily. 

I take it to
the only tree in the world
poets have not yet
personified. 

It is a great tree: 
Each branch is a dick
I can laugh about. 

Each branch looks back
and laughs at me: 

dickless. 

 

 

 

 

*laugh track in mustard* 
 

my closest relative
is a chip
                                 but 

don’t take my truth
i literally have nothing 

only this coconut
i use as a telephone 9-1-1 hello 

lonely dog here need a bone
i’m a wild blueberry 

with thick hair and brown
pants full of shit

yes       uh       huh

artisan cheesemakers
are fighting in the field 

this bowl with a spoon
at my throat won’t quit 

barking up
                          leafs no— 
up!      leafs! 

            you’re looking

that’s the wrong direction
                     now that’s down

 

 

 

 

Joe Gutierrez lives in Long Beach, CA. They work with animals.  You can find them on Twitter @gojibrry.