My printers outlast my shredders,
I believe in scissors more than a pen.
I rip up my notes, rarely keep records,
and burn my manuscripts in salty fens.
I find certain words are static charges
alive with present shock and rumble:
annoyance, dryness, blockage, sludge,
black-swan and crumple,
the color cyan: piercing, glancing,
inhospitable—the nut straight at poker,
the sound of all-in, then raking the chips
by a dribbling drink,
and your drunken sister doesn’t care
if she’s wearing mascara at your mother’s
second wedding, and the faces
of the clowns doing balloon tricks
for your upstart kids start to frown.
There’s always a brat that knows
where the rabbit went and tells
the crowd. That was me in nutshell.
My story to tell. It is rare I formed
a partnership with a human
lasting more than a couple of years.
My teeth have never blunted.
Manny Grimaldi is a Louisville, Kentucky poet, a spit and a cough just west of the "bourbon trail". He is the managing editor for the poetry journal Yearling out of Lexington, Kentucky. Years ago, his drinking got arrested and thrown in jail, and occasionally Manny has marched on its behalf. Manny is also a clown. Personally, and by training.