the drifters

that flit about
the skits of the
suburbs
always get me
on an alert
that the
worst of the city
bums could never do.

the suburbanite
drunks dirty with
cardboard sign
or hitchhike thumb
on interstate roadway
always have that look
that they didn't quite
get all the blood out
of the carpet and there
might be some specs of red
on their shirt sleeves.

the narrowed eyes,
smiling mouths,
the stench of oppression
blinding your reproach,
and they amble as though
the gun could be exposed
at any moment as the switch blade
accidentally tumbles out of
their back pocket.

when you look back to see
if the rag tag man
fetched his knife off the
ground,
there is a massive fire
blazing where he used to stand
as the blaring sound of sirens
start instantly
and you notice
that the man begins
appearing in your rear view mirror
flipping you off with a huge
grin in his eyes
as the mysterious knife
lies in your front
seat
and you are suddenly not sure
if you should drive
any further
down the creepy road
of suburbia.

restless fonts

if i
was a
wiggly font,
i would
put on
tiny yellow
boots,
splash them with
loud colors
and jump all
over this page
you are reading
with such veracity
that you will
never believe
you read
anything as insane
as a dancing
font with
rubbers on
splashing paint everywhere.

More Ink Progress ..

Joe Dimino,
I am sorry to say I'm turning your submission down. Thank you for submitting to Fickle Muses. Good luck!

Sari Krosinsky, Editor

internal externals

i used to
stop
at night
on long,
lingering drives
and peer
deep into the silvery
flashes of light
high above on
dark poles
that winked
at me.

i used to yearn
to know
morse code
and deduce
what they were saying
to my life
as i just sat there
counting the intervals
of blinking
exultation
riding over my
eye brows,
whispering
small
forgotten
phrases over
my
unmoving
ear drums.

Poetry Progress

Dear Joe,
Thank you for your poetry submissions. However, I am sorry that I cannot publish your poems, as they are not right for the journal.

Still, I greatly appreciate your interest in The Cherry Blossom Review. Best wishes for your poetry.

Sincerely, Jennifer LeBlanc

when the weight of bills,

chores,
no time,
autism spectrums,
the expense of
everything
come colliding into
my quickly beating heart
at odd intervals
in the spaced day,
i quickly retreat
to a spot in my brain
that is hidden like
bags of gold in a forest
under a stack of sticks
to visions of my loverly wife
and i blaring down some sun ruined road
in our old age behind the
over-sized wheel of a
sussed out RV
with cigars in our mouths,
singing to yo la tengo and
wondering why the years didn't
move as fast as our
parents always
predicted.

gravity confusion

what
if
the
sky
really
was
the
ground
and
the
ground
was
the
sky
and
we
could
all
finally
come
to
the
consensus
that
we
as
a
human
race
are
really
upside
down.