Featured Poet: Amish Trivedi

Episode Three In Which Mr. Wyndham's
Cat Kills The Milkman



I.

I think I
used to be an
"I love you" type
of drunk

who would
end up crying in
front of a large
Elvis poster.  Now,

I just fall asleep
with visions of
daffodils laughing

in my face.



II.

"Perhaps the best
thing," she said, "is
to not

think about it."  So
I smashed my face
with
an iron.



III.

In slow music,
one can hear the
gasps of the composer,

who rests his eyes
just long enough to
ignore the lingering

siren.



V.

When peas mix with
other colors, I want
to run around and

hug Republicans

before beating them with
the (still hot) microwavable

tray.



VI.

I wish I could have
myself over for lunch
once.  And that way,

I could tell myself to
dress like I meant to

when I watched TV after
school and dreamt of stardom

over potato chips.



VIII.

If everything around
can be burned like
gas or Hitler, what's

the point in making sure
our beds smell fresh?  Wouldn't
it be

easier just to light a cigarette
and spit when you talk down?



X.

Someone made a
comment about my
race.  I nodded, raised

my testicles and said, "I
hope I finish in the top
ten, though my knees

won't bare me."



XI.

Saltines come in boxes of
120
and slices of cheese come in
packs 24.  My mind's a skipping

record and I'm ready to toss out
the player.  And they expect me to
keep knitting gray socks for
warm winters.



XIII.

What color is group sex?  Because
oral is blue and anal
is red (that makes no
sense!)

so what color is group
sex?



XIV.

God,
what is it about gas
that makes baby's smile,
or a grown man chortle
all day?



XVI.

Once, while I was
intoxicated,

you came into the room
and I shoved my middle
finger into the air
over and over
again.

This, I realize, makes me
the happiest.



XVII.

In seeing him, and in
him pretending to be
Goebels,

there is an awkward,
silent laugh:

He knows he wouldn't
have survived

a concentration camp

(that was my laugh).



XVIII.

Can't more things
be multi-use paper?

Can't she laugh at jokes and
solve riddles just as well as

she becomes an object to
be defiled?



XXI.

With you being Pope
and all,
I wonder this:

Is there a
Vatican proctologist?

Looking up your ass is like
looking up God's ass.



XXII.

She was a dragon, and
I was a dragon.

Pretty soon, we
were burned
out on each
other.



XXIII.

Mr. Pope:

I think a "prison
pussy" would suit

you, since you can't
have a real one.  Since

God must have a beard,
I'm sure he won't mind if

you have a representation.



XXIV.

I got too stoned and
watched the snow

instead of the ice on
the road (FUCK) and now

I'm a cross-shaped figure
in a drift

somewhere.



XXV.

How can you DENY
the Holocaust?  The

only
thing that should be

'denied' is what.  You're.
Smoking (but

are you?)



XXVI.

I don't under-
stand your
meth

amphetamine,

much less your
text-mess

aging.





Amish Trivedi has had poems in La Petite Zine, The Backwards City Review,
Cannibal, RealPoetik, and the e-chaps The Breakers (Absent Magazine), The 
Ink Sessions (Scantily Clad) and Selections from Episode III (Beard of Bees).
An installation piece is forthcoming from Cannibal as well. The Trivedi Chronicles
(www.amishtrivedi.com) are moving to Providence, RI.



© Copyright 2009 Amish Trivedi