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GLAD IN FULL MOON AMONG PUSSY WILLOWS I SWAMP
michael schiavo



Troy—you up-and-comer—collecting

          acoustical data off the Leeward Islands

                    hot hand runs dark half-white

          joy tingles fingertips I so miss your

mascarpone mindset. Flags of azure

          rest ready in the ruined astronomy

                    where together we whorled. A man with

          one leg’s got to have a sense of humor

in the discotheque jumping Jehoshaphat.

          You too have left the war to your children

                    who while hammering the gambling

          hall invented a new way to walk

it talk it move right along riddim.

          What hath the official mascot of South

                    Dakota State University wrought early

          we are received in that arbor with a banging

light & mechanical paucity. I love you

          whose name I don’t can’t pronounce

                    as I dig the shepherd’s pie morning

          organ plays “The Theme from Cleopatra Jones.”

I could go for a New Haven slice sure

          but one thing’s good as another.

                    The boom of a neoteric galleon strikes

          from out the fog too foggy lately reminds

folks of the Wethersfield Red Lobster summer

          menu. Spooky swashbucklers raid

                    my mind of bad cobra touching

          & am mazed in the curl swirl mist hair

across the bed meadow grow muscatels.

          Swan come down forever more less simple

                    simple when you come. Begone you

          major cronyism when the credits end.

Everything you do you’re supposed to

          even in time of grand calamity forgotten

                    valentine waterspout what you want most is

          to not be alone one more day. Aroma of exurbs

sprawling ebbs the downtown away from what

          Dr. Kellogg deemed upright. Uptight

                    after midnight well alright fairie sprite

          my outtasite dynamite. Good enough a little

longer ’fore the whole thing shuffles.

          Hens & wolves & butter on the walls.

                    Yesterday I ate you out you moaned on

          on on about the tiny man in your

grandma’s mansion somewise I failed

          to free your leap. I ask you not Helen

                    how you could make me sail all this way

          for to die in sight of the wide water

that would will take me home.









PAGE 31

LA PETITE ZINE 25 · FREAKY FREEZE

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Michael Schiavo is editor of THE EQUALIZER. His ranges have appeared in FORKLIFT, OHIO, THE NORMAL SCHOOL, THE AWL, FOURTEEN HILLS, COLD-DRILL, JUBILAT, SIXTH FINCH, and WE ARE SO HAPPY TO KNOW SOMETHING. He lives in Vermont.