Whitsunday

in fear, robes wined
The Waffle House

one look my heart forevers
when no longer sky where?
floor littered with doom-temple
snakes where kneel

where cotton
the church-bell scythes
wave like a prom queen
(under tarp-hands blue)
Dirty dirrrty


Li Bai Poems as Sleeping Pills

He drowned drunkenly trying to embrace the reflection of the moon. There’s a space between darkness and light. One day somebody took that space and made some cheese out of it and now we eat it and spread it and talk about the space race and how we made it to the moon before an ancient Chinese poet made it but Raclette is Swiss, or French, and imagine what an ant sees while looking through the tunneled holes in Swiss cheese. Imagine an entire ant family looking through one of many holes and forgetting the walls were made of cheese—seeing only empty space ahead. The Ant father turns to his Ant wife and Ant children and sighs ‘I’m sorry but we can’t carry this home.’ They all leave, dragging their feelers behind them but there’s something to be said for that too: the holes in Swiss cheese, a mouse or an Ant with a round of bread, what is, or is not, inside the circumference is comforting in the way that a reflection can also be a yawn.





Daniel Beauregard lives in Atlanta, where he works for a local newspaper. His poetry has appeared in NAP, Keep This Bag Away From Children, Spittoon, Brown God, Loose Change and elsewhere. You can follow him @666ICECREAM.