Poetry: Selections from Josh Gaydos

before giving in

I

the canary siding of the cookie cutter house

had turned to pale lemons

picked by platinum blondes with picnic baskets,

they would be discarded post photo-op,

to go from green to yellow

back to green

decomposing under pointed lamppost buzz,

the lit cube could not avoid

vivid awareness of the

four a.m. light blue lunacy,

my stumbling to the back door

I wake up midday

to my sister flickering a trifold

through the window

as she catches the sun in the driveway

I dwell on how

I must be squandering

this hurry to nowhere,

the skyscrape and paydirt circuit

between

frozen food aisles, the mileage

between

plastic country crock containers

and the light bulbs

that microwave the butter melt

father had a healthcare mattress

stuffed with dollar bills,

once he took a ricochet from a nail gun

off of a plate bearing

the nail coiled around safety goggles

and dug into the pulse of his right cheek,

but that fiery sting holds nothing

to mother’s begging

to not be here anymore

II

it was summertime

and the days were drunk like a

windshield wipe

I left strapped in a burgundy seatbelt

matching the cushion,

riddled with burn holes like birdshot,

the sun ate the pavement

through the flatlining states

Governor Foghorn Leghorn

whimpered up and down the leg of

utility men at the dinner table,

his vermouth gullet draining public radio mixers,

his pelican pouch sucking the water supply

from schools off I-95,

his cartoon face stenciled on

with white lightning hair greased

he dabbed his eyes with a silk handkerchief

when I waved goodbye

tap water here tastes the same,

the gravity would pull

wildfire satellites and

igneous meteors from the outer-bounds

I carved their faces in the hills

and I accentuated the scar on his cheek

the envelope, no, the postcard home

would have to not be as cheery as I

really was, perhaps black and white

or a somber painting shrunk

the progress of the west

was huddled under evergreens

with grounded Heinekens catching

the neon of the driftwood motel,

casting the same shadows

as those I had been running from

First Snow ’21

red gummy bear in snow salt

cracked when kicked

on my way to an

open mic in the city

my first time walking there

I saw a naked woman

covered in silver paint

laying on the sidewalk

and just after I passed her

a man in all that he owned

grabbed her collection bucket

and ran,

and she chased him

her bare feet slapping the asphalt

and I watched her run after him

and I thought

should something be done about this?

is this a test from some divine source

that I’ll soon fail, now bound to return

to that test again, in this life

or the next?

how much had she collected in that bucket,

lathering on that silver and laying

with her limbs extended

just past rush hour

on the corner of California street?

would those bills and coins be weighed

against my heart?

she still makes an occasion

of tapping my shoulder,

and when I don’t turn,

whispering in my ear while I’m in meetings

leaving silver chin prints on my blazer,

leaving paint running down my cheek

I’ll see her draped over the corner chair

as I roll my cart to the dryer wall

at the laundromat, eyeing me

and otherwise motionless

as I shove the comforter in

Starlit Sellout

paying the morning

for numbing last night,

a beanie hungover my head

as you redefine your eyelids

in the corner mirror before

getting dressed in some impression

that won’t too entice or offend

with your consumers commuting in

on fiery rail lines, extending the block,

Cleopatra in a parka and the selling of skin,

us against the wilderness,

a billboard against the steel,

you’re a starlet, I’m a sellout,

writing on our warped bed

I’ve eaten our love and turned my stomach

to a dime novel

with the hopes to buy a bronco

and some land,

and you’ve picked up a gig with big pharma

for the parade,

you’re a smiling needle waving to the kids,

I’m a shiny boot street crier

shouting about the percent of the percent

of the percent of our profits backing

some embellished cause,

I’ve learned a dance for the utility men and

you’re starlit, I’m a sellout

writing on this warped bed

Driving Between Jobs

driving the drunken for Sunday’s pocket change without tax, without tithe, I would try

to not live out yesterdays

a light rain came concealed,

wind carried, made without measure,

I’d drink it, microwaved or pressure-cooked,

just the same, self swallowed

hollow how are yous,

I’m the late night captain,

the therapist, the silence,

driving with care

from the airport to Arvada

shaving caused breakouts and Nair

was an unneeded expense, so I wore a hat

and took scissors to my beard

I bowed each morning on carpet stains

in a redefined devotion

I’d abandon by May

without getting out verse

it would appear

upon the metal and rock

sifted through at the bottom

of the gaps I’d vacuum

at the car wash,

burning an hour’s pay

Josh Gaydos (he/him) is a self-taught poet who currently resides in Colorado. He has been published in Barren Magazine, Door Is A Jar Literary Magazine, Roi Fainéant Press, South Broadway Ghost Society, and streetcake magazine.