Todd Colby


Not the barren eagle
nor the salt fish kitten,
not the gash or the limp,
not the golden cake on the rim
of a gale, not hopeless and feverish,
not the strip of blue salted bing cherry
under her tongue (where I kissed it),
nor the whopper columns that shifted, 
not the welted light butter,
or the blanket of asphalt, not the silk 
pits gum, not sanka, not spinning lemons, 
nor grouchy mints. Not the
helium rings or the storm papers, 
just an old spacesuit
that became a satellite.

Bliss Cloud
The silver licorice is alive!
Chrome cleat and blister pack module
designed for space use only.
Comb the fat from my hair 
as we circle the sun. 
Gelatin muff, outer space sorrow, 
the beefy angel
is making it real, yo. Still
the air is tinted orange while dawn sparks
gray cavities of urban gunk 
strewn about on earth. I'll have all the eats,
find the bubble, kiss the bitter mist,
and jab you with corn cobs.
Remember: my factory dish
is metal and harmful, so each of you
with your lips, your anger, your cubicles,
are the delicate indicators 
of the coming disaster, so there.
Do I have to peal this gunk 
from the gravity boot
so as to chum it off? Do I cuddle
the twits while putting shoes on them 
or do I make them sit to be squeezed by
pinching their feet glazed with sugar? 
All of them: forky porkers!
Like thunder alone will fill
their gills with wax, minky garbage
on their lacquered bones
times ten bangs for a fun house
twins in the ginkgo tree
tearing the leaves down in front
of the panic store. Razorback dazzles,
snack fakes, goals like crossing 
the street, like memory sticks,
like missing the stabber with a gush.