Poetry

Resignation of Pleasure and other poems

by Zach Fishel

Resignation of Pleasure

 

Lost like the car keys or

your contacts

blindly trampling

the smallest crumbs

of dropped toast

in the carpet I

hungrily miss your wine stains.

Today I fell in love with the

rainstorms in your

gutters

as the old

postcard from your holiday,

the one where you never returned,

slipped into the

disposal from the hanging

magnet on the

freezer door.

 

 

Love Poem for Abandoned Houses

 

My heart is

exhausted mortar

clinging to

your underpinning,

knowing that no

flood will move

This chunked

brick,

as water

pains through

dirty windows.

 

 

 

My Favorite Cup

 

Kool-aid and cheap beer

drunk from the same

unwashed ceramic cup,

tough and chipped

but surviving

accidental

microwavings,

two angry

ex-girlfriends,

the new gas stove,

and countless drops

from hands that have

dirtied carpets,

and left promising

to bring something

next time.

These people only

Spill and use,

yet this scarred cup

knows that first you

have to have nothing in order

to hold anything at all.

 

 

Maybes Mean Nothing

 

Some nights a man wants

to split his breastbone

and disconnect

a heart sensibly wrung enough to

top the sponge of

kitchen bachelors.

Those nights

are sutures of

fishing line

and forgotten bobby pins

from the woman

who collects dust

like an arrowhead,

locked away from boy scout camp,

or a bus ticket

in the dirty book forgotten

at the station the day

she left town.

 

 

Poem About Adventure

 

Everyone is a limp dick

wondering why more prescriptions

don’t ignite a passion.

There’s a dog spread across I-64

by a Mac Truck as

gnawing a toothpick

heading north to the Great Lakes

my mind wanders along the lines,

breaking with lane changes

desperate for romance between coffee breaks and

speed traps.

Aligning to the left lane,

a piece of you sent out the window,

furious like a teen with nothing

to do but pussy.

 

 

Rise Up, a Man Rooted

 

Sour flesh off

the vine

and choke cherries

stain the footpath,

sticking to gum boots

found in a cork tree.

 

Peat of Irish tea and

cold biscuits

warm knotted

muscles dog-eared

into mountain peaks

like the only

novel you’ll ever need.

 

Drawn tightly from grayed

Temples

Piddling down cheeks

Like now defunct springs,

Memories the echoing of

rusted church bells.

 

*****************************************************************************

 

Zach Fishel is a Pushcart Nominee and the Univ. of Toledo Press Fellow. His work has appeared in numerous journals and he hopes to move west for a PhD in American Modernism with a focus in Environmental Studies.  He also co-edits poetry for Red Fez .

 

Art by Ernest Williamson

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