Arsenic Lobster poetry journal Issue Thirty-five
Summer 2014
Ricky Garni

I look at an egg, and all I see is a face
that doesn’t have any facial characteristics.

I look at an avocado, cut in twain,
and I don’t think of a hazel vulva.
I think of my banana-colored Volvo,
which exploded in the parking lot—
it frightened the elderly ladies nearby who
were wearing vulvas and already crying.

I look at salmon, and I think: where
is the lemon and ice? Where is the fine
sweater that you once told me to find,
of salmon, and I explained forthwith
that I had left it in the truck with a man
with a gun named Jedidiah whose
manner was vulgar? It was a flatbed
truck, filled with ice and lemon,
and it was a dream. A dream of
Jedidiah’s, or am I dreaming
of Jedidiah’s dream? Am
I just a dream of Jedidiah?
Who knows?

I look at a sweet potato, and
I think to myself: what is wrong
with this world? Why can’t we
all just get along? And then
I eat a sweet potato.

I look at olive oil in beautiful bottles
and wish I was a pirate who could feel
the blood coursing through his veins
as he drank a bottle of olive oil which
he mistakenly thought was gold or
perhaps a saucy temptress, golden
skinned, oddly shaped, and slippery
to the touch and $15.

I look at Kale and I think of
Christian Bale whose skin is
so luminous. In at least two
movies he was thin as a rail.
When he was little, he had
a tail.

I look at a strawberry and
I imagine mixing it into
a salad and drizzling olive
oil and balsamic vinegar
on it and wonder if women
ever snicker when men
say this. I am a man who

Looks at nuts, and marvels
at how well they have learned
to co-mingle.

About Ricky Garni

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