By John F. Buckley
You have to be very good.
You have to suck shakes through the straightest of straws.
Down on your knees for a bit
by the pond, you have to stop
feeding the wild geese Raisinets;
they are not healthful bugs.
Look in the mirror and contemplate:
have you replenished the household
emergency kits? Have you purchased spare batteries?
If you bite into too many beloved clam bellies,
hot from the fryer, you will not be the sleekest of beasts.
Despair of reaching the mountaintop, you,
and I will comfort you briefly, in a seemly way.
Meanwhile, the wildfires and mudslides
sweep toward the cabins,
waiting to scour the earth of those
spending too long brushing their teeth.
Meanwhile, another rack of disappointments
in a six-pack of Capri-Suns.
Hit the road, ranger, and seek
a land without moss. Look for a clan
with a lean and hungry look, look for them
over and over, over the hills and through smog,
somewhere to express your intents
in your cruelest lisp. Write those things a ticket.
John F. Buckley has been writing poetry since March 2009, when his attempt at composing a self-help book went somewhat awry. After twenty years in and around California, he now lives in Ann Arbor, Michigan with his wife. His publications include various poems, two chapbooks, the collection Sky Sandwiches, and with Martin Ott, Poets’ Guide to America and Yankee Broadcast Network. His website is http://johnfbuckley.net