Ten-Deuce Offsuit Rain
“There’s no life like the life I’ve lived. You’re
free like a cloud floating up in the sky.”
In a world without good
guys, he was the good guy—
a collared shirt under that white
cowboy hat and his ten-gallon
smile posted above a shuffle
of chips. Only he could flip
breaking his leg into good luck—
instead of the NBA he gambled
his way with a super system,
zoomed through saloons
into the Bellagio’s room—
cracking one liners from the seat
of his scooter. How many times
did his hands graze the felt
as though it were grass?
The no-limit curve
of his shoulders raised
on through the years—
hunched puffy clouds
over the poker table, just
to teach us to look up.
“America did not want the statue.
She took it because it was offered.”
Never has a face looked so forlorn as her giant
head displayed at the world’s fair for a fundraiser
to build her body. Yes, it’s easy to personify that
which is affixed with skin, even when it’s made
of copper. Made to sway in the breeze of the bay,
every ship must sail by her hips, spy the spikes
of her crown—a halo of bayonets, her eyes always
open, counting regrets. She thought she could be
a kind of lighthouse in a land that didn’t want her,
that if she learned to smile, the others would soon
orbit around her. She shone without fuel, glowed
a circle of light—and when the birds pummeled her,
for she’d grown too bright, she folded into her skeleton,
resolute to scowl, learn to blend in with the clouds. Polite.
A Pantoum Doesn’t Fall Far
Of course, there are horses everywhere,
when little by little, we unpainted fences—
as if the grass flashes green when I feel deja vu.
There are racetracks and fields and then you.
When, little by little, we unpainted fences
at the garage sale, a bruised copper apple.
There are racetracks and fields and now you.
How far must fruit fall just to seed truth?
At the garage sale, a bruised copper apple—
as if the grass flashes green. When I feel deja vu,
how far must fruit fall just to seed truth?
Of course there are horses everywhere.
Everyone Hates Flying Haibun
“Poetry: I, too, dislike it.”
But what else am I supposed to do, when I am practically wearing an airplane’s wings, the tufts of clouds puffing up to greet me? I can’t even choke up a complaint about the pretzels—the tiny ones in a bag for a doll. Awww. I picture elves twisting the dough and in such a way have kneaded myself all the way to the North Pole. And just like Christmas—the truth is, I love it all, especially the parts I shouldn’t. Even the rage of a baby crying is woven in like how we’re knitted to our seats. Thinking Moore about it, aren’t we all a scarf—flying miles up in the air, desperate to pretend this isn’t spectacular despite the tassels trailing out behind us with golden thread?
Let Me Hold the Door For You
with both of my hands pressed on the glass—
your own hands too tied to clasp, the threat
of a door clapping closed right on your
only nose. I used to think time was a hinge.
That doors open and shut on the heels
of each second. As if I could simply grab
a rag and Windex my way through the
years. But even cracked glass can confuse
a cardinal, and I can’t stop opening all of these
windows. Sometimes, I forget to first pull
up the blinds, and the metal sails shuffle
around like timelines, smacking the frame.
I fly through. And out. And back in. And just like
the wind, time curls from the queues with no end—
KHD’s love of poetry first bloomed as a child. She memorized Robert Frost sitting on a tree stump and bathed in Edgar Allan Poe as an adolescent. While studying words at Florida State University, she played with chips and became a professional poker player. She’s passionate about the immense potential NFTs present for poetry, and enjoys helping onboard traditional poets primarily through Twitter (@Katie_Dozier). Her poetry has recently been published by Rattle, Frontier, and The Tickle. She maintains TheNFTPoetryGallery.com as a vehicle for showing the potential of CryptoPoetry, regularly speaks at NFT NYC conferences, and hosts “ThePoetrySpace_” weekly on Twitter.