Drink On It
Palm Springs is a white blur,
scorched into the fabric of time, an escape
from the density of sycophants, uggos, and sadsacks.
Until now, I had only seen desert flowers
on Instaflam, posted by those true believers
eager to reveal their sensitivity to nature.
For which I thank them,
as I can now recognize flowers in reality,
which is revelatory.
Do you have it in you to have it in you?
Do I have it in me to be the it?
Your vanity is an aphrodisiac to me,
even more potent than jealousy.
But I would rather die
than kill myself over a woman.
In any case, I’m never given the opportunity
to make such an unseemly display
of my innate bad sportsmanship.
The winner feels nothing,
only not having to feel
like a loser, only this relentless scrimmaging
for early supremacy.
— Ed Voebel
The Meek
They sit apart at parties, wilting
like neglected houseplants. Their music
is easily confused with white noise.
When the booze runs out, none
of them has the nerve to shoulder
into his coat and hike to a nearby
liquor store. You never catch
them wearing bright colors.
Their laughs are half-swallowed.
They yawn a lot, wallow in apology,
kneel, plead. Their sea of griefs
has been rising since humanity began.
So what’s their plan? Most of the matter
in the universe is invisible, and the meek
teeter on the cusp of the unseen. When
we notice them at all, we’re distracted by
bowed heads, tight smiles: benign disguises
behind which lurks an eternity of mildness,
and a ravening, saber-toothed surprise.
—Amy Gerstler
Voicemail From Satan
So, did the claw marks on your neck heal yet?
When will I enjoy our mingled stinks again?
Better be soon. Why aren’t you picking up?
Nevermind. I’ll find you. I just need one tuft
of your hair, a quick lick of your skin, plus
your undivided attention for several millennia.
Seriously, flower, how are you? I gotta drop by
at least once a week till you lose your beauty.
If you’re busy I’ll just plop down in your den,
index afflictions and wait. I’m gonna gnaw you
into pleasing shapes. You can deface me, too.
We’ll smoke some of your chatty weed. Then
you can hold my tail while I sleep, so this god-
forsaken loneliness won’t overtake me.
—Amy Gerstler