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Monday, April 18, 2016

Outsider Poetry By M. Medved

Stuff That Grown Ups Believe In


In rivers that flow North, 
In alligators that run 35 mph,
in helicopters to any rescue,
in the persuasive powers of shotguns,
in dark water,
in red ribbons for third place,
in running in place
when being chased,
and in swans that glide 
on iced over waters. 


M. Medved


How Madness Decides For You


Beguile, torn in half and rearranged is: "I'll beg."
Beguile, implies enchantment, which sounds like chanting.
Chanting makes me think of Pagan ritual, of druids who 
Sacrificed their own for the sake of imagined safety.

All of this translates to you being trouble personified,
So I will fold my cards early, pass on the possibility, 
abandon whatever you're selling with your snake charmer shoulders, 
shrugging and smiling a hypnotic maybe so at every yes, at every no, I buy.

M.  Medved


...

Your soul is
the shape of a star,
the kind you pin onto a child's shirt--
the kind that says Good Job! You will go far.
My mind is 
a thank-you-for-participating ribbon.
What I mean is I am tired of walking into rooms,
full of exclamation points, being the only ellipses. 


M. Medved


Katrina Anniversary, 2105.


The trees crack with ease,
like swollen knuckles
releasing fluid.

The pine and birch no longer
compete. They become domino's
setting each other in motion.

There is no lightening, only 
wind, following through with the
threat. What did we expect?

That night, news stations report
on the sight of rising water. I 
remember the sound—

The sound and the scent of how
it all came down. Snapping, cracking
like an old AM radio left unattended.

Charcoal clouds turned to cobalt, then to
army green. The smell of wet pavement
and static heat. 

Again and again, the crash without the
polite forewarned shout of TIMBER--
Then more pines falling into the arms of each other.

A neighbor makes her way over. She tells us 
It’s time to get on our roofs. A sudden waft of 
Chemical smoke, but no one has seen anything like fire-- 

Just water. Flood water. Rising all around.
All night, I refuse to look. I just keep listening 
to the sounds. 

M. Medved



My Therapist Tells Me

She thinks she
has it in her 
to be a serial killer.

She makes little chopping motions 
with her hands in the air, does a 
fluttery dance in her chair.

This was the pinnacle 
of my day.

I'm not sure
where to go 
from there.


M. Medved

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