The Steinach Operation

A place of semi-natural vigor.


4/27, NaPoWriMo. Elisa Gabbert splotches on my blodge.


You asked me to write a blogpoem for you.
This blogpoem's for you.
Post this blodgepoem on your blodgesplotch
and know that
every poem I write is for you.
For you, about you, and in some ways by you.
I stole part of this poem from you for you.
I stole some peaches from the peach farm for you
and baked them into this poem.
This poem contains the perfect peach
and that peach is for you.
I captured this gypsy moth for you,
trapped in it the poem and killed it for you.
I gave up Jainism for you.
I like you better than Jainism
and better than most insects.
I like you better than sex.
This poem is a way of having sex with you,
a way of penetrating you,
of leaving my smell on you.
My poem calls out your name in its sleep.
Your poem, I mean.
All my poems are your poems.
All my poems are free
and occupy no space in your bag
when you shoplift them.
Steal this blogpoem.
Open your mouth so it can fly in.
This poem has wings
that open and shut like the hinge
on your door, the tab on your beer can.
This poem was designed to snap off and
be carried in your perfectly empty hand.


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