I wonder if Seal got his name because it looks like his face was mauled by a Great White shark?
Jarod KintzI have a mustache like a squirrel and you just ran over my face.
Jarod KintzI want to save the environment. I like being green as much as the next Smurf.
Jarod KintzThe Frosted Flakes sales team once described me as “Flakey.” I was highly flattered.
Jarod KintzThe one benefit of Alzheimer’s is that you can keep giving them the same gift over and over, and it’s always such a surprise.
Jarod KintzI’m building a building from scratch, and I’m making it out of a giant itch.
Jarod KintzThe Chair
I’m writing to you, who made the archaic wooden chair
look like a throne while you sat on it.
Amidst your absence, I choose to sit on the floor,
which is dusty as a dry Kansas day.
I am stoic as a statue of Buddha,
not wanting to bother the old wooden chair,
which has been silent now for months.
In this sunlit moment I think of you.
I can still picture you sitting there--
your forehead wrinkled like an un-ironed shirt,
the light splashed on your face,
like holy water from St. Joseph’s.
The chair, with rounded curves
like that of a full-figured woman,
seems as mellow as a monk in prayer.
The breeze blows from beyond the curtains,
as if your spirit has come back to rest.
Now a cloud passes overhead,
and I hush, waiting to hear what rests
so heavily on the chair’s lumbering mind.
Do not interrupt, even if the wind offers to carry
your raspy voice like a wispy cloud.
A Letter to Andre Breton, Originally Composed on a Leaf of Lettuce With an Ink-dipped
Carrot
On my bed, my green comforter
draped over my knees like a lumpy turtle,
I think about the Berlin Wall of years that separates us.
In my own life, the years are beginning to stack up
like a Guinness World Record’s pile of pancakes,
yet I’m still searching for some kind of syrup to believe in.
In the shadows of my pink sheet, I see your face, Desnos’ face,
and two clock faces staring at each other. I see a gaping wound
that ebbs rose petals, while a sweaty armpit
holds an orchestra. Beethoven, maybe.
A lover sings a capella, with the frothiness of a cappuccino.
Starbucks, maybe. There’s an hourglass, too, and beneath the sands
lie untapped oil reserves. I see Dali’s mustache,
Magritte’s pipe, and bowling shoes, which leaves the question--
If you could time travel through a trumpet, would you find
today and tomorrow too loud?
I love tables. And dancing. Oh, and I love table dancing, although Grandmother always says, "Wait until we're finished eating.
Jarod KintzI like to spoon after I fork.
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