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Three Poems
by Cate Peebles

I Rose to Flail Among the Luminous

Demotions from hola to nope: I want
to learn the names of knots in the order
of their slipping, wearing a fuchsia wig,
spewing diamonds into Mr. Micro-
phone; rope invites burn, no? Vaudevillian
smack: the kerfuffle had pirouettes for brunch.
Cerulean horse-head’s gone the way of the tree-house,
so cease and desist all mention of see-saws;
[insert your snap here with scowl and backpack].
If you were a Polaroid I would have
smeared you before you developed sharp
cheek bones. Surly child hurling glares: surly man
drinks a can of milk. You plush snubber, go thumb your
soggy hymnal: go sing your stretch of tundra, your unfurled
rug between the ribs. Now beat it thin with rolling pin and flat of fist.

*

Depend on deep-end flailing: orange floaties deflated
after years of rejection; I never wait 30 minutes
before jumping in. I’m a know-nothing of abominable snow
angel proportions: you, you’re a see-nothing
of 20/20 blue. After getting to know the statues
better, I spoke to a candle about polish and where I go wrong*
(*roof-tops, particularly in weather; this much is clear);
as if this wasn’t gothic enough, a tour bus stops
at the cathedral beneath my feet, its passengers poured
into silver jumpsuits; they sigh in my general direction
and throw buttons into the alms box: Thank You for
your donations to the Church of Yes, This Again.
It’s the white peacock squawk that keeps me upended.

Taco Truck to Awesometown

All the waterfront property in Funkytown
was taken, & we knew the dog-days of groove
were slumped & shaking in the corner, drowning
in pools of mohair and leather; it was time.
The tattoo above my ass says: enough with nut-
shells, I want almonds. Like most things,
it has to do with an ache. There were no circles
under our eyes, but octagons & trapezoids;
all night the barbaric yawn of feral
iambs kept us chewing on our blankies.
Say, it was time to wipe our noses & shut up, it was
time to say yes to hot-sauce, queso-blanco, & lime:
It was time to tighten our lips and trousers & get up, not
down; time to get this motherfucking freak-show on the road.

Ornamentality

Indeed. A festoon’s worth in blandness, an expanse
truncated & left in a wad of wet newspaper; fodder for pigeons
& other profligates in need of nests. I want to be a movie star,
a moving star, a mute in starred pajamas. The day goes like this:

1, 2, 2 _, C, etc; a bum-rush of bedraggled tick-tock & whatnots
galore. I find myself a sippy-cup & ten-light candelabrum, to say
nothing of the busted coffee spoon, the likes
of which have not been seen since the 5 & dime went 99.

Do you ruffle? Or shun bunting? Mistrust the finials, the small crown
carved into your tongue– we ate so eagerly & ripped our diadems, exposed
satin strewn from the base of a contraband cat-nap. At four o’clock, all I could think

to want was a pair of scissors so I could cut blue strips from blue
paper to paste on top of other blue papers & stud with broken light
bulbs until the entire table crumbled under the heft of my approximate sky.