Things That Make Me Dizzy
Pulling weeds. The Oscar winner who says my painting looks like
“loving hands of home.” Conference calls. Honking.
A houseplant or an appliance in the snow. An imagined world
where I am the dumbest person. The same car backfiring
for a month. How is it still running?
Sunshine. Semi-colons. The mean things I said.
Missing something. Yelling at online chess opponents.
Lots of people cheat at online chess, even though they get nothing
for winning. It’s a problem. Leaves. Walking.
Being asked what makes me dizzy. My first novel.
My second novel. Being ignored on Twitter.
Getting by. Having something to say. Your eyes.
Not saying it. Phones that still ring.
Sitting. Not reaching anyone. Lying down.
Being thought about. Smiles.
Excellence. Distraction. Fury. New lyrics
written for old music that will never be sung
by anyone but me. A not quite ripe pomegranate
torn open by bare fingers. Keeping
my shadow out of photographs. Ever making you feel bad.
Trying to capture dandelions. Squirrel, bird, or frog?
Incidental Obituary
When you're famous for hunting bears
no one will notice your love of Brussels sprouts,
the pop of layered bitterness amid crumbled Bleu cheese,
or the nights you lost perfecting its recipes,
ignoring the impatient moon waves
on the deep lake outside.
All these people who don't know you
will wonder gruesomely how you died
even when you're still alive and already realize
you've peeled too much from this verdigris grenade
to wrestle larger monsters again.
Donald Zirilli (zirealism.com), James Tate Prize finalist, Best of the Net nominee, Forward Prize nominee, and Now Culture editor, has dropped poetry into River Styx and other wetlands. His chapbook is Heaven’s Not For You, Kelsay Books, 2018.
