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BENJAMIN BUCHHOLZ

 

 

Benjamin Buchholz is a US Army Officer currently stationed in Iraq.  His fiction and poetry have been featured widely at places like Planet, GoodFoot, The Wisconsin Academy Review, Tarpaulin Sky, Tryst, Hiss Quarterly, the Arab-Iranian journal Annetna Nepo, Action/Yes, Dislocate, 2River View and many others.  He's just had a screenplay based on the battle for Bamerni Airfield optioned by a Turkish Film Company.  For a full bibliography see www.benjaminbuchholz.com.


Between Now and Waking

We will be ourselves absurdly. 

We will kid up and color pencil skies until they wrinkle a milkshake consistency. 

We will hurtle huge doppelganger fences, horseback Pegasus with a strung pixie carrot to lure, lure on, the fleet swayback billows of starlight.

We will into the trickle chilly lakeside slip skinless shedding our me and our you for fishbowl refraction and same size shoes as fit us a Fourth of July some years back when first in the hedgerows we pirated lipstick, cooed algebra, sipped grass-stain.

We will kitten daisies, swat them with pink pads, nails hidden, slurping shine and weather balloon from the knoll oak and ridge of blue haystacks.

We will barefoot the box elder.

We will string theory small holes in the cupboard clutching drywall and rainspout, skitter, to whisker away into sofa the crumble cake limestone padded with nest.

We will dish forgotten burnt muffins and whale tantrum of plaid v-necks cheek pinched and blink in the gauze of smile, smile, Aunt Esther’s got a Nikon, all roostered up with the grandchildren, butterdish fingers, hamper, who’s missing?, the football cranes its neck from behind gathered bodies so rumple drunk uncles might root and statistic.

We will tarot tea in a vacant Jamaica, barn swallow silent, the bodies lifted on palms and washed tracing footprint to the big Carnival liner, fluting them out, piccolo daze, locked in the hold the specters of poor and black pale beside tourism holding to the bilge window, the oval, a three of crowns.

We will trouble love crone telling you leave he’s I’m trouble and chapstick.

We will trouble love crone telling you catch out the doghouse, trap, kicked thing to the curb, he deserved it, yes, dealing, dealing, a squiggly hand.

We will wanderlust into the horns.

We will me and your absence sludge you clean from kissing them phantom lladros as they horsehead and boar pirouette into the breath of forcing nutmeg on them making them into an octopus an El Greco a last supper of leg and bra-strap and singsongery, Odelai, stamping stumpf fiddle wine while all around the bodies of ancestors mask in Corinthian rafters.

We will taste into day the resolve of primrose remembering and anxious nearer live because the able is more than chilling.

© Benjamin Buchholz 2006.

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