damon hubbs
Hobby Horse
I listen to the sound of rice pounding
Shipwrecked in the birdbath by the boat house
There it is: brain fever Sunday school when Elizabeth bit me on the arm
The last time I saw the King Rail it was wearing beggar’s clothes
I was knee-deep at the boat house
Son cheval de course, son dada, son cher califourchon, ou, pour
parler sans figure, ses caprices
I view myself the hero of the Eastern seaboard
Love stubbornly seeks its course
In Sunday school when Elizabeth bit me on the arm
Her little lips like rock drills
My rancid humor My lewd encounter with the barber
I work across mediums and styles
I’ve used my last 21 stamps
It’s a form of taxidermy —where thou dwellest
Like a man perched atop a rock drill
She was fond of saying he played the devil in a Christmas play
St. James Episcopal
Brave scraps of planets
Birds like open-mouthed boats
The shared lines and titles —elliptical, hovering, high speed
Divine timing and the extravagant use
Of gold-leaf
In every possible future
I dare my lovers
To leave the windows open.
Damon Hubbs is a poet from New England. His work has appeared in Hobart, Apocalypse Confidential, Farewell Transmission, A Thin Slice of Anxiety, Horror Sleaze Trash, The Gorko Gazette, The Literary Underground, The Disappointed Housewife, and elsewhere. He is the author of the poetry collections Nighttime Logic and Venus at the Arms Fair. He is an editor at Blood+Honey.