"Ironing the Shirts" by Cleveland Wall
Ironing the shirts
even though it doesn’t matter
if there are wrinkles or not.
Because here is something
that can be put right. The placket
can be made to lie flat, and the collar
to stand up, and the pocket to drape
smoothly over the breast
like a pledge of allegiance. Ironing
under a bare bulb in the basement,
a flotsam of lint runs aground
at your feet. The shirt breathes
cotton steam. A small, dry patch
of order appears and lingers
even a little while after.
"My Brain on Autocorrect" by Cleveland Wall
I go to the word cupboard
to fetch a well-worn word
but my fingers slip;
the butter falls
and I come up clutching
an anvil, a sharkstooth,
a folderol, fa, la, la—
a folder of folic acid,
a sharepoint, an anywho—
Cleverbot, I come up
fandango. The buzzer
for my Finnegan dashslaps.
To fletch a well-worn world,
I go to the weird cupid.
"Misery, I" by Cleveland Wall
like rain pissing down from a ruined sky
like sad music, difficult music
hideous twelve-tone godawful discord
experimental, unlovely
antic music, like aimless films, musty
cinema houses, dim even before
the lights go down, jilted bus station
dusk: guy with a wide dustmop
soothing the polished aggregate
like thinking about the economy
all the fucked up economies of the world
and a keening pulse radiates
sonar from my navel to the many
federal reserves; to each plaintive blip
in the sweep of my bullseye screen I
signal back: it’s okay; I am with you