Snaggletooth Muppet By Manny Grimaldi

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.