ROOM FOR SPACE
The log is knee-high, depending.
Is placed upon the chopping block.
Then monitored by shaky hands,
rather ghostly, though only momentarily.
Given the right weight,
even a blunt ax can divorce a log—
and thus implement its lengthwise courtship.
The manner in which they fall onto the lawn,
whether gracefully or not, is what
determines their sounds of self-reliance.
COPS STRADDLING CHAIRS
Poked my head into the garage. Saw a tennis ball
still struggling to find the sweet spot on the windshield.
Went back in. He hadn’t stopped fucking flapping his arms.
Supposedly—and he was crossing his heart, hoping to die
all over the place—someone funneled his ponytail
down his garbage disposal. Looked like a tortoise
dealing with having sunbathed alone or a gymnast
in a foam pit, gulping for air, an inch shy of reaching
that thick, dangling rope. And there was this pile of steaks
thawing atop the island, wading in an inbred pool. Big, too.
Big enough to cure a bruise in the good ole days. I could hear them
clacking together, smacking his thigh when leaving the store,
sounding like those five goddamn balls clicking on my desk.
While handing me the sharpened butter knife,
she tells me to go to town.
She thinks he will look much more handsome
with a swimmer’s body.
It’s doubtful, sure, but maybe I’d have marched
in favor of his pot-belly
if it were socks I wore, not gloves.
She does, however, have quite the knack
for wrapping up my sentences for me.
Suddenly, just as I grab his gut,
from behind, my shoulders are repositioned.
Apparently, I stand unprofessionally.
She then cups my ear and leans close,
“Put on a helmet. You’re going to step on a rake.”
Jordan Clark lives and works in California within the ceramics industry. He has previously been published at X-Ray Lit Mag, Mineral Lit Mag, Silent Auctions Magazine, among a few upcoming magazines as well. Follow him on Twitter @wh0op5 and Instagram @y1k35.