leeboylethepoet
Lee Boyle The Poet
Ohioan experimental poetry since 2008
62 posts
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FRIDGE BOX
Package kills appliance.
Youth births mega life.
Blankets swallow cardboard
floors. We are churning
laundry, neanderthals
by fire, coop hens,
spaceship drivers. Tell
Mom we’re staying up.
Scribble the walls.
Rip the flaps. Snap
the crayons, full
steam ahead.
https://drive.google.com/file/d/1TTJ3x2tKVHZYoS9-Nz-S7NvgXTSEaKsG/view?usp=drivesdk
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OLD SCHOOL SNOW
Thick movie flakes, the hand
of 1959 tossing animated drifts
across our parking lot, March’s
color-restored lawns flicker, in
your screen; tamper with knobs;
turn winter red; zigzag across
static slopes.
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PRIVATE LOVE
In my fantasy, my wife and I
live in a lighthouse mansion,
on a lonely island, sea waves
lunging at our porch steps.
I make lots of music, online,
with my friends; she crafts
mugs, shirts, and digital
paintings; we drink fresh
coffee, on our balcony bed,
each morning, forever.
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MIND DEATH
Tea pours into my
voids. Now is the
future. Tomorrow
is the past. Death
never lasts. Empty
is fast; slow fools
the wolf. Cradle
the cats. Scratch
records, on entry.
Smash specters
for centuries. Sky
holds space. My
wizards dwell in
clouds, turning
truths to lies.
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POEM LEAVES
This poem leaves my mind, too
quickly to remember. All I have
is this. All I love is you. All I hear
is music. These poem leaves,
from novel trees, are written on
by Lees. See seas of buttered
universes, corned-beef tongues,
kissing away curses. Churches
flip, like houses; houses haunt,
like churches. Urges scatter
candlelight service. Organs
donate hymns through limbs
of blue-haired ladies. Shading
me are poem leaves, trunks of
treasure, dying roots, governed
branches, model twigs, childish
flowers, guarded bark. Climb to
my heart, before this poem leaves.
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ALIEN PATROL
When I drift to sleep,
my wife and dog fly
to a factory, by a
river, recharging in
electric hammocks,
plotting their next
mission on earth,
patrolling dusk’s
towns, lining up
nocturnal society,
gathering local
creatures who
will grow wings
to join the quest.
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COOL APARTMENT
A frenchie’s tongue
blankets my wife’s nose.
Medicine pries at model
heavens. Poems shoot
through my soul.
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TRANSFORMATION TOWN
Crisp coldness, clean
lawns, dry leaves crawl
under melting snow.
Chimney billows behind
bare branches, East
Palestine, Ohio unfolds.
Thorns tickle telephone
wires. Hawks eye me.
Cars run stops. Paint
peels. Gutters droop
with frozen rain blocks.
Ceilings sag. Sirens
wail. Deer feed. My
soul hides in moss.
Rustling forests blend
with heaters’ hums.
Drops make love to
my windshield. Bricks
scatter in orchards.
Cellars turn to dirt.
Planes plummet. Kids
walk infinite blocks.
The universe rips into
another universe. I
close curtains, turn
up volumes, and
wait to become you.
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GET OUT OF THE CAR
Believe it is you,
moving of your own
accord, free-willed,
pursuing your own
joy for the first time
in your life, your nerves
bubbling in Morse Code,
“Chase happiness forever."
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GENTLE STALKER
Pass my house,
dry summer midnight,
curtains opened, windows
shut. Faint melodies hum
from my basement like
a soft song playing on
your car radio. Through
darkness, dwell in dusty
air. Pull through parking
lots, closed-down stores.
Telephone lines droop and
tighten over you. 5 am, town
turns groggy and blue. Go
by my home again, dawn’s
wet fog; you can’t see in. I
am buried, somewhere. In
afternoon, lay in front of
a static television at home;
slump into a nervous nap.
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MOUNT TANTALUS
Bananas away, packed,
huddling for warmth, in
throngs of Hawaiian
wind. Undo your stem;
fall, yellow babies. Leafy
pits of wild-pig jungles
await; birds stutter as
you ride hills; kissing
dirty slopes with each
somersault, I see
Honolulu light up, a
vast land of high-rises,
blue water. Clear skies
yank me up into their
gullet tent; red flowers
lick my cheeks, petals
slobbering, a place still
trembling from white
caress, ready to
gobble me up.
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DRIVING COUNTRY
America is a driving country.
Roads jockey until every
bite is taken out of a
mountain. California lanes
shoulder roadkill graveyards
into the Pacific Ocean. Merge
points slice together at
crazy angles in Washington,
D.C. Farms race by your
window in the Midwest.
Florida's blocks get
over-cruised while New York
is at a crawl. Arizona's sky
will vacuum you up,
into it's blue. Barrel to the
edge of Maine; get out of
the car; take in the view;
jump back on the highway.
You get in line at the
toll booth; the person
in front of you has the
same radio station on;
you both notice it and,
for one moment, no one
is thinking. For a few
instances, America may
make sense, feel practical,
possibly gleeful, but
it's always then time
to go back to driving.
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UNITY
I had a third-grade crush;
I was a puppy, following
her through dandelion
playgrounds. She liked
to hang with me, on the
side, when the popular
kids were busy. One
day, at lunch, she told
me we could play tag.
When we got to the
playground, I approached
and asked if it was on;
she smirked and said
“You are ridiculous,”
and ran off. There I
was, a small spec in
a yard, by a farm school,
in Unity Township, Ohio,
with what I thought was
a broken heart; I thank
goodness that later
years brought much
worse. That moment
is now basically a flirt.
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METHODIST CORPSE
My dad laid in a box,
in our church, the one
across from McDonald’s.
We got two ministers
to conduct the thing.
They sang “In The
Garden” and “In
This Very Room.”
Old people leaned
down to kiss us and
converse about our
father’s kindness. I’m
digging for criticism,
but it was a nice funeral
with sweet people. I was
9; my brothers were 7 and
4, so we didn’t know what to
do with death. People who
lose loved ones pay to take
pills to zonk out on autopilot;
but you just have to be a kid.
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VAN CRASH
My demo CD blasted on dashboard
stereo; my passenger friends didn’t
want to hear my dumb new songs.
Tires spun on ice; we went up a tree,
backwards, tail in the air, my red van’s
nose buried in snowy mud; we went
vertical. We laughed in relief of not
dying and went to G’s Pizza. The
lady who served our slices told us
that the G stood for God.
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MADE TRUE
All things
I ever thought
about you were
only made
true by me.
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STAIRWELL SOUNDS
Jazz saxophone howls
in my earphones; I slide them
off to hear beginning credits of
a movie in a bedroom, a piano
being played in a basement,
a radio interview roaring from
a living room, four addictions,
one house, haunted by the living.
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