3 Poems Dustin Williamson


The Vincent Price is right

“is that all its been since I inherited the world—
another day to get through? better get started
& if I’m the only, the only one then I am
legend ary in a time of me & only
the heir apparent pouring gasoline in a tea kettle,
toeing the line between comedy and self
extinction living off the weak ones we leave
for a lengthy conversation flesh eaters and
a roommate letting the cat out among the flesh
eaters with someone we heard on the radio
we’re the only ones on the radio but it’s not
fair to stop trying to talk with the percentage
chance so I suppose we’re both survivors
repealed by our own reflections in the pungent year
ning uncovered the drawing of half the city
I haven’t searched how many more squeamish
moments it was raining hard, through the broken
windows we pushed shopping carts full of
imitation crab meat and a waiting darkness
into the apparent air “Morgan come out;
Morgan come out” what will they do if you’re not
inside listening to records, drunk on home
movies universal disease whistling past
a grave yard an airborne passing sound



some sort of zebra


the time the day ends/ the moment
staying awake becomes a sort
of sacrifice/ to read to you again/
and by/ mean there are lines
of deodorant down my shirt/
to divorce/ the custard/ from inside
an éclair/ you thought was
a doughnut/ the commitment of biting/
into a surprise/ of seeing a TV movie
about your life/ but Brendan would
probably still say “this is your life/
not a movie”/ fair enough/ a TV
movie then/ a title whose importance
realizes/ the sullied first appearance
as the scroll/ scrolls across/
the surface of her fingernails/ a very
tradition I’ve never heard of/
Patriot’s Day for example/ who gets
to decide the boundaries of
celebration/ perhaps the guy tipping
garbage cans over/ in my back alley
/ yeah/ that guy is off limits/ for my
celebration/ or the guy that stumbles
by/ looking to stab the next whiteboy
he sees/ which is me/ but don’t/ my
sister stepped on a tooth pick/ this
week/ & my mother couldn’t take
any more infection in her life/ or
the dogs loose in the back yard/
when the bag tips/ into his own pocket
& comes out/ with a fistful of shine
/a sort of letting go/ of my pin
number/ a realization that this is an
investment/ an identity to fall back
on/ & eat glass/ if it pays the bus
fare/ all the goods I’m giving up/
a piece of paper/ folded into
another piece of paper/ with a
piece of paper/ stuck to the corner
which allows me/ to move about
in a white truck driven by a green
man/ in a blue suit made of cotton/
revenged by a trumpet/ but I’m not
retaining the conversation/ I’m having
about the Hotel Wentley Poem/ in Boston
from my bed in Milwaukee/ tho it’s
really about the Bay/ & the man in
my garbage made of aluminum/ the
possibility of a fair conversation/
a moot point/ stirred into a bloody
mary/ that many miles/ & the spice
that makes up the grit in our bone/meal
sprinkled on some sex organs/ to either
aid contraception/ or prevent it/ on the
other side of going somewhere/ to
become an ancestor/ I hope someone
has a nice picture to show the media/
later/ when I’m submerged in/ a jello
mold/ refusing to eat/ the way out/
cuz after all/ it’s made of horse hooves/
& I don’t eat horse hooves



beginning and ending with a line by Carey Grant

“you’re smartest girl I ever
slept with on the train”
& you can’t even pick apart
the crowd from the news crawl
Who cares if it’s the train
station at noon it couldn’t be
him he’s got shaving cream
on his face A big face
& a small razor In the
spirit of the proceedings
Who’ll say the worth of
leaving the room & into
the arms of a high bidder?
That was of course the
feelings we spent to keep
the car warm & the
marginalia engorged
Who says the barbs stung?
I want to be sure you’re
alone with nothing to tell you
but the paper that I’m current-
ly reading The train original-
ly left behind The field you
ran through With the bi-
plane closing in between
the sky & your skull
“Don’t kid yourself you don’t
have any feelings to hurt”