This eating of the space around you is tiresome

The lackadaisical way
you thrust about suicide

has the smell of the long con about it.

Is made up of glucose.
Glucose is tiresome
now I’m regretting
the peonies.

I thought sword swallowers
did not have organs

as most people are glorified
sheaths anyway.

Take your time, the sample
is always Isaac Hayes—

I walk
so slow on purpose, why

can’t you catch up.                 Catch up.

I’m full time but

three quarters,

this means I am

angry. I’m full time

but three quarters,

this means I am

your mother.

I’m full time

but three

quarters, this

means you’re

gonna read

more Hemingway

and there’s nothing I can do to stop you.

Can’t wear tobacco perfume.

I know I’m a non-smoker now because I said no.
I know I am a lot of things now because I say no.

Forgery has a petaled innocence

a peony, each layer a density
of distraction and before
I know it, I’m smoking again.

Not calling it a dahlia.
Empty accordion flowers.

Support me with a cage
and I’ll give you the thickest head.

Trial
lover
at least a voicemail.

The next time I wind
a watch I expect it to hold.
I’m announcing this
now in case the witness goes
missing.           They do.

It’s not one hundred degrees
with no air conditioning.
It’s mild

it’s mild
it’s mild

it’s boring all this cutting
and eating.        All this cutting
up your meat into
bite-sized chunks.
 
 
 
Amie Zimmerman lives in Portland, Oregon. She has been published, or has work forthcoming, in REALITY BEACH, fog machine, Vinyl, LEVELER, and Forklift, Ohio, among others. She takes a lot of Vitamin D.