The Fox Chase Response Couplets

Written after G. Emil Reutter's reading and book release (of Blue Collar Poet) at the Blue Ox Bistro in Fox Chase, Philadelphia.

I

What nobody ever thought about
simply single words to remember.

When everything is gone there
must be something left to fester.

Dark car cornering cop with pastry,
engine light on, zero wipers on high.

I wanted to do everything for you.
I wanted to take you to horror movies.

Just by begging we fascinate mirrors,
lips curving upwards spelling synonyms.

An explosion for the peacemaker
nothing more than a letter bomb.

The best words written on the salt
that exploded your pacemaker to act.

In security the X-ray machine ex’d out
and your eyes ex’d close like a child.

Boring rooms, with bald white lights,
the sheen a waxy glare fit for a palm.

Took upon flowers and watched them dry.
Married gaze to stems and curling commenced.

Each pain the foot is blood red to the mind,
but to the foot it is yellow like disease.

February in St. Croix did not happen;
but you and I quit Dunkin Donuts.

You and I quit BK ‘n’ McDonalds
and Wendys and I never started Checkers.

A checkerboarded face shows your good.
Evil is a drought hanging on with each sunrise.

Personably exquisite is what the security said,
voice drowning with the noise exhibit factory.

II

Wondrous droves of doves picked off corners;
salmon being cooked in grease, cracker-covered.

A glazed cinnamon raison bagel a treat
worth several hundred calories and tongue ties too.

The ice cream creams into liquid fat above
and there’s my tongue licking your thigh.

Too often do I think of the past these days.
Archetypes end up drying, gathering dust like us.

There was Colleen Olsen and her red tiara of hair,
her lips bubbling reality into fantasy, on time, in tune.

Though this evening’s beer was tall, it collapsed.
She stopped her conversation and stared back once.

Wurst cut in half and served in buttered bun;
anti-cheese sliding down throat like butter, jelly.

A scent of vague plums, bathroom plunged and sick,
I questioned the out of order sign’s threat, appeal.

It was the drive back and the discussion on bases,
it was our grim endeavors and angsty haste that won.

Remember that mall with its machines?
Remember that dove with its guns?

A chain gun sits silent churning 6000 rounds.
One minute ago we walked like deer to death.

Today a white flag means it must be dirtied.
Yesterday it meant “let us meet, truce, finish.”

Stolen between blood baths and microchips,
the youth tries to text but his phone is red, soaked.

Along the line dancers sit mimicking laughter.
Along the graves mourners stand to go.

Perhaps while we were drowning in wheat beer
a man was drowning in bullets, or the sea.